I cut mine in front of the main building and swung my leg off, boots hitting familiar ground. Jersey Boy killed his and followed suit a few feet back, not crowding me, but not shrinking away either.
Helmet off, I shook my hair back, the blond strands sticking for a second against the inside of the liner before falling to my shoulders. I clipped the helmet to the bars and turned just as he pulled his off.
“Fuck,” I thought.
Stories hadn’t been lying.
Clean jaw. Dark eyes. Tattoos licking up his neck toward a face that should’ve been selling clothes in a mall window somewhere, not dodging bullets in a hospital corridor. Today, there was a line of tension between his brows that hadn’t been there in whatever polished photographs his features were built for.
That backpack though. High and tight. Both straps secured. Brown canvas. Worn at the seams. It looked wrong on Jersey Boy’s shoulders and wasn’t his style. I could tell it was something grabbed in a hurry.
Yeah. My suspicions didn’t like that.
Before I could say anything, the front door slammed open loud enough to rattle the windows.
Liberty came out hard.
I’ve seen grown men with more than one homicide under their belt step back when she walks like that. She’s not tall. Not bulky. But she carriesherself like every bone in her body was filed into a blade and wrapped in snakeskin.
Black hair poured over the bandana tied around her head. Tattoos wrapped her throat. The blackout sleeve on one arm made the other’s riot of ink stand out, every color a story, every line a wound or a weapon. Her eyes took in the scene in one swift sweep.
Me. The Devil’s Ace. His cut. His face. The backpack.
Her lip curled.
“He’s here,” she said, phone tucked to her ear. Her gaze never left Jersey. “Alive. Looks to be in one piece.”
Whoever was on the other line said something sharp. Alice.Blackjack. I knew that tone.
She moved forward like she might bite.
She stopped just shy of him, close enough that I could see the white flecks in her irises. Then she held the phone out. Didn’t offer it. Threw it.
“Here,” she said.
He caught it on reflex, palm smacking against the plastic.
“Your President wants to yell in your ear,” she added.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. He lifted the phone.
“Yeah,” he said.
I shifted a step sideways so I could see his face in profile. His eyes hardened instantly when he heard Blackjack. The relief was there too, quick, ugly, gone.
He talked. Fast. Alive. Miami’s condition. The hospital. Something about not touching the tech, just the book. His gaze cut toward me once, measuring, then away.
Liberty didn’t bother hiding that she was listening to his side. We all were. The whole yard had gone quiet, engine ticks and distant dog barks the only other sounds.
When Blackjack told him he was sending 8-Ball up later, Jersey’s shoulders lowered half an inch. Not much. Enough for someone like me to notice.
He ended the call with a “Yes, Prez,” roughly the same way a soldier salutes out of habit, out of loyalty, and out of love, and with an apology.
Liberty snatched the phone away as soon as it left his ear. She dipped her chin at me. A signal.
Keep him there.
I didn’t move far. Just enough to give the illusion of space, not enough to actually relinquish it.
