Relief barely has time to register before the older officer adds, casual as an afterthought, “You two traveling alone the whole way?”
“Yes, sir,” Jagger answers without hesitation.
The officer studies him.Then me.His gaze lingers just long enough to make my skin prickle.
“All right,” he says finally.“Drive safe.”
“Thank you, officer,” Jagger replies, already moving.
Inside the cab, his posture loosens, shoulders settling into something that looks like calm.But I see the truth anyway—the muscle still ticking in his jaw, the tightness he hasn’t let go of yet.
“Next stop, Memphis,” he says.
His voice sounds hollow.
He looks composed enough for any trooper to believe him.
But not for me.
Not when I can still feel the storm moving inside him.
We may have passed through the checkpoint unscathed.
But Jagger didn’t.
He’s barely surviving each moment.
Jagger
I should feel relief when the warehouse comes into view—the distribution center is a nondescript building on the outskirts of Memphis: gray concrete, roll-up doors, chain-link fence.Professional.Clean.Exactly the kind of place that moves legitimate pharmaceutical supplies.
Instead, all I feel is the echo of last night and the checkpoint tightening around my ribs like a belt.
I back the truck into dock three, almost misjudge the angle—something I never do—and kill the engine.I sit there for one extra beat, fingers still wrapped around the gearshift like I’m waiting for the world to lurch sideways again.
A man in a hi-vis vest waves us forward, clipboard in hand, all business.
“Delivery from Baton Rouge?”
“That’s us.”I climb down from the cab, every muscle protesting.I’m running on fumes and adrenaline, both wearing thin.My eyes sweep the lot automatically—habit I can’t switch off—even though this is supposed to be the “safe” part of the job.
He checks the manifest, compares it to his clipboard.“We’ll need to verify the seals.”
“Go ahead.”
Adena joins me at the back of the truck.She looks tired—dynamite, but tired—and she’s watching me carefully, like she’s trying to read what’s going on under my skin without alerting anyone that she’s doing it.
The warehouse crew makes quick work of it, checking seals, scanning barcodes, offloading crates onto pallets.Fifteen minutes, start to finish.
The supervisor signs off on the delivery.His eyes linger on me a second too long, just enough for my instincts to bristle.“You’re all set.Safe trip back.”
I bob my head and stalk toward the truck.“Want to grab some breakfast before we meet the return driver?”
Marquez is too smart to send the truck back empty or with me behind the wheel again.Running the same route twice draws attention.The truck’s picking up a legitimate backhaul—medical equipment headed to Baton Rouge.Different driver.Different manifest.Clean.
She nods, covering a yawn.“When does our flight leave?”Before I can answer, my phone trills.Marquez.I step away from the warehouse, boots crunching on gravel, and put my back to a rusted container.
“Just signed off on the delivery,” I say.
