Page 152 of Jax
My mind was already pulling variables: shipment delays at Gulf Coast ports, the uptick in drone interceptions near proxy zones, power vacuums in post-coup governments quietly requesting American munitions through back channels. This wasn’t isolated. It was part of a machine. And we’d just stumbled into the wiring.
“We didn’t find a warehouse,” I said. “We found a node.”
Niko yanked open a lower drawer with more force than usual. Its contents spilled across the tile in a disorganized clatter that didn’t match his precision. Photos—dozens. Not surveillance. Portraits. Business casual, smiles, handshakes. Half were labeled. The rest didn’t need names.
These weren’t leverage targets. They were collaborators.
Middle-tier political operatives. Lobbyists. Defense contractors. One former ambassador I recognized from a flagged debrief file, “unreliable but protected.” The kind of people who didn’t hide corruption. They legalized it.
I crouched and flipped through the stack. Each face was tied to a funding source, a signature, a customs override pushed through internal channels no one expected us to trace.
This wasn’t blackmail. It was confirmation. Complicity, catalogued without shame.
“Jesus,” Niko muttered, then caught himself. “This goes well beyond anything we tagged in Rayden’s info dump.”
Carrick didn’t speak. His hand hovered over another manifest, fingertip tracing a timestamp - three weeks ago. The delivery cleared customs in Houston and landed in Lagos by the 17th. No listed buyer. No inventory offload. Just a final note:Diverted to Private Storage—Location: Ashfall.Obviously a codename.
We weren’t standing in a dead drop. This was a live system, embedded just deep enough to be ignored, but not so deep it could hide from itself. Every scrap of intel we touched fed something bigger: supply lines, falsified customs entries, ghost accounts funneling funds to shell companies that didn’t officially exist but kept surfacing in foreign conflict zones with unnerving regularity.
Carrick straightened, thumb dragging a slow line across the edge of the desk, eyes fixed on a thought he hadn’t voiced. Niko kept typing, cycling through one data cluster while isolating another. I scanned the mismatched monitors, each blinking its own story, trying to decide which thread was most dangerous to pull.
By the time Quinn arrived,we already had Violet clear of the building. Sully had her wrapped in a wool blanket, propped in the back of the SUV with a steady presence at her side. Deacon crouched a few feet off, posture loose but deliberate, scanning the tree line as if he could will any threat to break cover. The storm still clung to the sky, spitting rain across the asphalt, but the perimeter was secure.
Quinn didn’t barrel in. He never did. He came straight from his vehicle, pace clipped, eyes already moving over Violet before he’d taken three steps. He’d waited for the all-clear beforecoming in, but even with that, his arrival carried weight. His gaze swept past the rest of us, landing only on her.
“Vitals?” he asked. Voice low. Professional. Not fragile.
Deacon straightened, giving the readout clean. “Stable. Mild dehydration. Tremors. No major injuries. She’s responsive.”
Quinn gave one tight nod. Then he knelt—not dramatically, not broken, just moving fast enough to meet her where she was. He didn’t reach for her, didn’t press. He kept his hands loose on his thighs, posture a mirror of hers, eyes locked steady.
“Violet,” he said. Just her name. Testing the ground before either of them stepped farther.
Her eyes rose slowly, cautiously, like she was measuring reality against memory. She didn’t fold into him. Didn’t cry. But something in her posture shifted, as if the weight she’d been carrying found a fraction less resistance. Her lips parted, cracked and pale, and her voice rasped out, hoarse. “My sister… where’s Stella?”
Quinn’s jaw ticked once, the smallest fracture in his stillness, before he answered. “Safe,” he said quietly. “She’s safe.” Nothing more. No promises he couldn’t guarantee. Just the truth she needed to breathe. Violet sagged an inch deeper into the blanket, her eyes closing briefly like those two words had bought her a fragment of strength.
I hung back near the tail of the SUV, watching them both while Carrick moved up beside me. He didn’t lower his voice when he spoke. “We found more inside. Not people. Stockpiles.”
Quinn’s head turned, slow and sharp. “What kind?”
Niko stepped in, pulling his phone from his pocket and holding the screen out. Images flicked past—rows of crates, steel racks lined wall to wall, weapons stripped of markings. “If I were a betting man, my money would be on this district being one of their hubs. They’ve got enough firepower stashed in there to arm a small army.”
Quinn took the phone, his eyes tracking the photos, jaw tight. He didn’t rush, didn’t react. Just absorbed. Each image tightened something in his posture. He didn’t need to say what we all knew, that this wasn’t the end of the line. It was the first real fracture in a case that had been stonewalling him for years.
I logged every detail—the stockpiles, Violet’s pulse still fluttering too fast, Quinn’s silence carrying more weight than any order. We hadn’t broken the city open tonight.
But we’d found the crack.
And that was enough to keep going.
“Before I call this in to the Chief, I need to see it with my own eyes.” Quinn said, glancing towards Violet. “Deacon, Sully, do you mind staying out here and keeping the perimeter secure while the guys take me inside?”
Sully gave a nod, his attention focused mostly on our rescued hostage.
“We’ll take care of her, don’t worry.” Deacon said matter-of-factly.
“Alright, Niko, let’s see this weapons cache and the records room.” Quinn motioned for us to lead the way. We retraced our steps with him in tow, and in a much shorter timeframe than our first walk through the building, we were back in the office we’d found.
