Around us, the security line keeps moving—shoes in bins, laptops out, belts off.The X-ray machine’s conveyor belt hums steadily.Someone’s phone keeps beeping, setting off a secondary alarm.
Jagger stands perfectly still, hands visible, posture nonthreatening—professional.But I can see the tension radiating through his shoulders, the way his jaw keeps clenching.
I can’t stop thinking about how he’s lived a lie for three years straight.
Not just the work, but the friendships he must have made.
Three years of memories.I never considered that some of them would be good—funny, even.That the cover would have room for that.
Maybe that’s how he survives it: those moments where the pressure eases just enough to breathe.
But I still don’t understand the Bible tucked into my carry-on—why he bought it without comment, like it was obvious, like it was necessary.
I knew I should say no.Every practical instinct told me to refuse it, but the refusal wouldn’t come, so I took it for what it was:
A recklessly wonderful gift.
The supervisor—a woman in her fifties with reading glasses on a chain—nods after reviewing the paperwork.“You’ll need to declare these at the ticket counter.They’ll tag them and store them in the hold.”
“Got it,” Jagger says.
We collect our documents and head back through the terminal.Jagger smothers a yawn, triggering mine.
At the airline counter, we fill out declaration forms under the watchful eye of a ticket agent who’s clearly done this a thousand times.She barely glances at us as she processes the paperwork, locks both weapons in approved cases, and affixes bright orange tags.
“Claim them at baggage in New Orleans,” she says, handing us our tickets.“Next.”
We move toward security again.Jagger’s jaw is tight, his movements stiff.He keeps glancing back toward the ticket counter like he can still see his gun disappearing into the system.
He looks like he just lost a part of himself.I know how he feels.I’m naked without Mercy.
Jagger sinks into a seat by the window, staring out at the tarmac.A baggage cart rolls past, trailing a line of luggage.
I sit beside him.“Tell me about the club we’re going to.”
He glances at me.“La Sombra Roja.The Red Shadow.”
“Should I bother checking online, or would that be pointless?”
He nods.“Pointless.No website, no listing, no social media.”
I process that.“So it’s exclusive or connected?”
“On paper, it’s a private supper club.Politicians shake hands with men they’ll never acknowledge in public.Celebrities go to be seen only by the right people.”
He runs a hand through his hair.“You get invited one of three ways.”Jagger ticks them off on his fingers.“One: someone who already belongs invites you.That’s the only acceptable route for most people.Two: you’ve done something valuable for someone powerful.Three: your absence would be more conspicuous than your presence.”
I frown.“And where do you fit in?”
“I’m important enough that not inviting me would send a message.”His eyes meet mine.“Once you’re in, there’s no membership card.You’re just… remembered.The maître d’ greets you by name even if you never gave it.”
A cold chill snakes down my spine.
“One more thing,” Jagger says quietly.“AtLa Sombra Roja, no one argues.No one raises their voice.Confrontation, anger—that gets finished outside.”His expression is grim.“Inside those walls, everything is polite.Civilized.Controlled.”
“So, no backtalking,” I say.
“You do that tonight,” he says, looking out the window again, “the same people who smile at you over drinks are the same ones who’ll have you killed before dessert.”
