The interrogation room built days ago mainly for Jax uses, continue to hummed with tired fluorescent light. Devereaux slumped in the chair, dazed, a bruise already blooming at his temple from where Jax had knocked him out. Priest stood by the one-way mirror, arms crossed, face like flint. Agent Carter hovered near the door with a tablet, watching the timestamped feed, ready to digitize every confession into evidence.
Jax didn’t talk much. He had one look—cold, patient—and when he leaned forward the Frenchman felt it like ice.
“Name the conduit,” Jax said, voice low and dry. “Name the fixer who moves their dirty work into soft places. Names, routes, drop-rooms. I want everything that lets me choke this thing at the neck.”
Devereaux laughed once, bitter. “You think I carry their names on
