Page 68 of Heist in Paradise

Madoc gave him a mocking salute and walked out without another word. Jax stared at the door for a beat, then sighed and nudged me gently after him. “He won’t wait for you.”

“He’s such a jackass.”

Jax smiled fondly. “Yeah.” Another beat passed. Time we didn’t have. Time I wished would slow down. There was still so much unsaid between us. The flash drive was already lodged in my pocket, the guestbook tucked on top of my binder. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were missing something. And that we were headed straight for disaster.

I searched Jax’s face, soaking in his roguish confidence, the easy set of his frame as someone born and raised in violence.

The thought of him dying punched a gaping hole in my chest, right over my already-splintered heart.

“Don’t die,” I blurted out. Way to play it cool.

“Go,” he said, and then grinned his usual cocky grin. “You can cry on me later.”

My face heated as I turned to the door. “I hate you.”

“Good.”

I forced myself to walk away, to look forward and not back. There was no time for goodbyes, but it still felt like one anyway.

JAX

The traps were set.

In record time, Callum found the secret entrance to the tunnels, tucked behind a seemingly innocuous garden shed on the east side of the mansion. Ryle and Nate were in the basement, rigging up the trip wires and dye packs. Zola was in the control room, where Ryle would be joining her as backup. I was looping wires across the staircase, each landing becoming a death trap for the unsuspecting.

It would be quick and messy and loud.

It was also a bloody Hail Mary.

Bringing down what was likely a well-established operation would take more than a few handy parlor tricks. We didn’t have our best equipment—our lethal explosives were stored safely back at the Compound, where Nate couldn’t get his greedy hands on them—and our intel was flimsy at best. The plan had so many flaws and potential for disaster that it left a gnawing pit in my stomach.

But I was ready—more than ready.

I was fucking amped with nerves and anticipation, more awake than I’d felt in months.

My pulse was a steady thump beneath my skin. My mask was pushed up over my forehead, keeping my hair out of my eyes while I fingered the intricate pieces of my equipment. I’d hooked a crowbar into my belt loop, the metal thunking comfortingly against my outer thigh. When all else failed, smashing skulls proved to be pretty damn effective. Not as effective as, say, bullets, but I wasn’t opposed to getting my hands dirty.

Well, dirtier.

“Basement set.” Ryle’s voice chirped in my ear.

“Scooby?” I checked in.

There was a pause. “Affirmative, Alpha.” His voice was strained. “Five minutes.”

Five minutes until they reached the shore. My pulse kicked. I returned to our makeshift war room, taking inventory of everything left behind. There was a forgotten pack shoved beneath one of the chairs. A glance at the inner pocket revealed its owner.

Ryle.

Sloppy.

With a sigh, I hefted the pack onto the table, pausing at the metallic thump it made. It was heavier than I expected. Biting off my glove, I unzipped his pack, finding the typical hazardous mess that followed Ryle everywhere he went. Beneath his clothes, snacks, and whatever else he’d deemed a priority (including a half-empty box of condoms) was something square and metallic at the bottom.

“Idiot,” I muttered, reaching in to pull it out.

My hand stopped cold.

What the hell?