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On it, they texted Mel back.
HQ, 0200.
Jax glanced at the time: 1230. Ninety minutes. Tight, but doable.
Barely, it turned out.
It was exactly 0200 when Jax punched in their code to open the door to the South Beach condo that was home to Redemption Inc., the “consulting company” Jax had officially joined last year. The flickering light of the TV and the scent of fresh-brewed coffee lured them down the long entry hall to the main office area that had once been an open floor plan living space. Papers and caramel candy wrappers littered the conference table where a dining table used to be, the two workstations near the seismic struts and wall of balcony windows were empty, and stretched out on the leather couch in front of the TV was a long-limbed Daniel Talley, asleep in a wrinkled suit. Behind him, his wife and Jax’s boss, Melissa Cruz, similarly dressed like she’d come from a night out, sat in Jax’s usual spot in front of the wall of computers, nursing a cup of coffee and flipping through surveillance footage of UTT.
“All good?” Jax asked as they skirted behind Mel, on their way to the pantry that had been converted into a walk-in weapons and equipment safe.
“Reading well,” Mel replied.
They spun the combo lock on the safe while warring voices squared off in their head. The guilty-sounding one cautioned that they were violating Feb’s trust, from putting up cameras and mics to pretending to be someone they weren’t. The other one argued they were protecting Feb; they were doing their job. They were neutralizing a threat before real injury came to Feb, UTT, and the staff Jax had come to consider friends. Jax needed to listen to the second voice. Didn’t make their insides feel any less twisted up over the first.
“Everything okay?” Mel asked.
“Yeah, just need caffeine,” Jax covered as they finished putting away the leftover surveillance equipment. They closed and secured the safe behind them, swung through the kitchen for a cup of joe, then claimed the desk chair next to Mel. “He’s the bounty, right?” They jutted their chin at the photo of Jacob Pappas onscreen. “Trent Mendes. Former CIA.”
Mendes had been tossed out of the agency and charged with mishandling classified information. As his trial neared and rumors swirled that he’d sold said information to third parties, he’d pulled a Casper and disappeared. Mostly. Redemption had tracked him to California, then, using credit card history from before he’d disappeared, they’d determined Mendes was a foodie who couldn’t resist the hottest spots. Accordingly, they’d placed operatives in restaurants up and down the state. Now, they had a good lead on which one he’d be dining at next—Under the Table.
“Once I had a name to go on,” Jax said, “I was able to pull more footage.”
“It’s him.” With a few clicks of the mouse, Mel opened Mendes’s CIA headshot next to the photo still Jax had nabbed off a traffic cam at the intersection outside Diamond. His hair was darker now, his eye color altered, and his nose sported a new bump, but Jacob Pappas was Trent Mendes according to the facial recognition software. According to Jax’s eyes too; seeing them side by side, they could spot the resemblance. “I’ve got the rest of the team pulling his Render reviews,” Mel said. “We’ll piece together more of the timeline. Where he’s been, his connections, where he might be hiding out. It was a clever cover.”
“What do you need me to do?” Jax asked. “Should I retire Dylan?”
“Why would you do that?” Mel minimized the windows onscreen and, coffee in hand, rotated her chair and assessing brown gaze in Jax’s direction. “You’re on the scene, and I got the impression you liked bartending.”
“I do. Paid part of my way through college.” The Madigans—their chosen family—had paid the rest. “It’s good being back behind the bar.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
They could continue weaving and dodging, but that would be futile. Mel was a former FBI Special Agent in Charge and the best interrogator Jax knew. Yes, Jax had picked up more than just ace hacker skills from their family, including the basics of detective and undercover work, but even their best ruse wouldn’t stand the test of Mel’s skills. And if—once—Mel saw Jax and Feb on the surveillance feed together, there’d be no denying the truth, assuming Helena didn’t tattle on her first. “I like her,” Jax admitted.
Mel cocked a perfectly plucked brow. “Which her? You gotta be a bit more specific.”
Jax laughed and relaxed back in their chair. “February, the head chef. She’s talented, she’s tough but civil in the kitchen, and she’s one of us. She’s queer.” The Madigans and their associates, Mel included, were active in the LGBTQIA+ community and had built their own queer found family over the years. Hell, found family was what held Redemption Inc. together. Feb had built a similar family at UTT and with other queer chefs in the city, like Amanda and Justin. Jax admired her for the community she’d fostered and for her voice as a chef, for the concept—a second one—she’d formulated and run with. She deserved recognition for all she’d done, and that recognition would go further than UTT’s walls. “A Render review, even if the dude is a wanted traitor, would cement Feb and Under the Table on all the best of lists and lift others too.”
“She’s not already on those lists? A simple internet search returns dozens of articles, all of them saying she’ll get her stars and a Beard soon.”
“She is and she will...” The minute the open-ended sentence was out, Jax face-palmed. The unintentional ellipses were the kind of open door Mel would walk right through.
And she did, a grin tickling one corner of her mouth. “You like her more than just professionally.” Not a question, an observation that was one hundred percent accurate.
Jax averted their gaze and sipped their coffee. The longer this conversation went on, the more they swung toward staying undercover at UTT. But the longer it went on, the more ammunition she gave Mel to take them off the op.
Mel tapped a toe against their shin and waited for their attention. “This life, Jax, what we do, what our families do, on both sides of the law, is not easy for civilians to understand.” Her smirk softened into a gentler smile, one tempered by experience and caution. It came through in her voice too. “Truth, it’s downright hard to survive sometimes.”
Jax hung their head. “Ugh, Mel, not helping.”
Chuckling, she gave their shin another couple of taps, this time in commiseration. “Helena makes it work. I make it work, and my husband is the definition of civilian who steps into shit.”
“I heard that, chica,” Danny rumbled from the other side of the couch.
They both laughed, which warmed Jax’s insides better than any coffee. Mel’s hand on their knee, squeezing gently, was another shot of friendly, encouraging warmth. “It’s not easy,” she said. “But it’s not impossible.”
THREE
