Page 1 of Heist in Paradise

JAX

“Jax? You in here?”

It was too late to run. For a second, I considered crawling into the engine bay like a grumpy weasel, but I knew that wouldn’t work. For one thing, I was six foot two and built like a fucking tank. For another, I valued my Jag way too much to risk damaging it.

The door opened behind me, the slant of sunlight instantly warming my back. I shot my baby a regretful look as I dropped the hood. We had a good run, almost a full hour of uninterrupted peace. I couldn’t smell smoke, so the Compound was still standing, and the lack of gunshots meant nobody was dead or dying. Still, I didn’t trust it. My crew were a loveable pack of assholes that thrived in chaos.

“There you are.” Ryle gave me a beaming grin as he strolled in. “You shouldn’t work in the dark. It’s bad for your eyes.”

Said the kid who liked to play fast and loose with his ADHD medication. “You need something?”

“Nope.”

“Piss off, then.”

“Actually,” he said, and I groaned. “It’s nothing bad,” he assured me, hefting himself up onto my workbench. His foot immediately started bouncing. No meds today, then. “Just wanted to see if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” I said with an even tone. Practiced.

“Sure you are,” Ryle agreed easily, his eyes clearly stating otherwise. “On an unrelated note, I convinced Zola to buy some of that valerian root tea that tastes like wet dog.”

I grimaced. “Over my dead body.”

“You will be a dead body if you don’t start sleeping.” He looked me over meaningfully. “You look like warmed-up shit.”

I picked up a nearby wrench and tossed it at his head. He ducked it easily, my aim off-center. The little shit gave me a smug look. “A well-rested Jax would’ve made that shot.”

“Yeah, well, this Jax is about to knock you out with a mallet.”

Ryle laughed and held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I take it back. You’re clearly very fine. The finest. You wouldn’t do anything to put us in danger.”

Kill shot.

Ryle knew what he was doing. I was the leader of the crew, and that made them my responsibility. That meant I couldn’t get sloppy. I couldn’t make mistakes. I couldn’t strangle Ryle with my jumper cables, no matter how much I wanted to.

I sneered at him, but it was more posturing than real anger. He was impossible to stay mad at. With his big brown eyes, auburn curls, and freckles. He was only nineteen, our youngest, and not as damaged as he should be, considering his past. It made me protective of him.

“We all set to go?” I asked him.

He nodded eagerly. “Callum has mapped the perimeter and floor plan. He’s worried about the isolation. Not that he’ll admit it.”

No, Callum wouldn’t. His pride was like the rest of him—huge, commanding, and stubborn as hell.

“It is risky,” Ryle added, the first to rush to Callum’s defense. The two of them were thick as thieves, all pun intended.

“It always is,” I said with a sigh. Every job had its risks. Every job had the potential to blow up in our faces. The last one certainly had.

And now you’ll pay for it.

My throat tightened with an invisible noose. Our employer, Dr. Z, was like the goddamn boogeyman. Everywhere but nowhere. Always watching, always listening. Even though I’d never met him (and definitely had no burning desire to), his reputation alone could make a goldfish paranoid.

For six years, I’d been under his thumb. His recruiter had found me at a low point—barely twenty, with a record, and no family worth keeping. He’d offered me an easy score, a gateway drug into bigger hits.

That first job had snowballed into long-term employment. Then the others had started showing up, bruised and battered and hungry. Working alone had suited me just fine, but I adapted. The crew became my family. And, like family, I gave myself a gold star every time I didn’t run them down with my car.

I suppose it could be worse. The job came with perks, like the Compound: a four-building estate on the outskirts of Washington. There was also the protection—the fake identities, the untraceable bank accounts, the access to weapons and military-grade tech.

All I’d ever wanted was a safe place to put my head at night. No knives buried under the pillows. No screaming. No flashing lights. Now I had a king memory foam mattress with Egyptian cotton sheets. Now I washed my balls with French soap, all fancy and shit.