The underground bunker the FBI had tucked Jax into was nothing like the Reapers’ old hideouts. No roaring bikes, no smell of gun oil and leather. Just sterile walls, humming servers, and the quiet shuffle of agents who didn’t quite know if they should salute him or keep their hands on their guns.
Jax sat at the head of a steel table, leaning back in his chair, shoulder bandaged from the bullet wound Lena had given him. His jaw clenched as he watched the projector flicker to life.
“Intel dump from the last a Hundred And Fifty-two hours,” said Agent Carter, a lean man with sharp glasses who had been reluctantly assigned as Jax’s handler. “Three high-profile assassinations. Senator Hale. Senator Cross, and lastly Senator Rachel Price. Same MO: clean kills, no trace, ghost vanishes before se
