The chamber lights buzzed overhead, harsh and white, pouring down on Nicolás Devereaux as he stirred awake. His wrists were bound to the steel chair, his sharp suit crumpled, his lip bloodied from where Jax had knocked him out.
Across the table, Chief Whitford sat stiff-backed, a legal pad in front of him. Two agents flanked the walls. Priest stood in the corner, silent as a shadow.
And Jax — Jax leaned against the table, arms folded, cigarette burning slow between his fingers. His stare was unblinking. Predatory.
Devereaux’s eyes darted, confused at first, then furious. “You—” His accent sharpened, spit flying. “Do you have any idea who you are dealing with? Men like me do not disappear without consequences.”
“Men like you,” Jax said, smoke curling from his lips, “don’t walk out of wa
