The Price of Treason
1100 Words
Jax didn't bother offering me a seat. He didn't even bother looking at me. While Victor disappeared down a hallway, presumably to make sure the wire transfer freeing my father went through, Jax stayed glued to the main console in the command room.
“The Rogue Alpha gave you his rulebook,” Jax muttered, his back still to me. “I’m giving you the mission log. Listen close, Aria. We don't waste time and we don't tolerate failure.”
“I’m listening,” I said, crossing my arms. I forced myself to stand taller, ignoring the way my heart pounded against my ribs.
“Target is Silas.” Jax swiped a hand across the screen, bringing up a blurry photo of a middle-aged man with tired eyes. “He was a low-level accountant for one of our ‘clients’—a mid-tier arms dealer who ships through our docks. Silas skimmed seventy-five thousand dollars and ran four hours ago. He thinks he can disappear in the city’s shadows.”
“Seventy-five thousand? Why is Victor sending us?” I asked. It seemed like small potatoes for the ruler of the black market.
Jax finally turned, his grey eyes piercing. “It’s not the amount, it’s the message. You steal from Victor, you get tracked. You get found. Your job is to find the trail, Aria. Fast. My job is to bring him back in one piece—or at least, most of him.”
He threw a small, rugged comms device at me, which I caught easily. It was the only gear I was given. “Let’s move, Tracker.”
The hostile silence continued in Jax’s black truck. He drove like a man who enjoyed chaos, weaving through traffic and ignoring every rule the Pack ever enforced.
“So, Tracker,” Jax drawled, breaking the quiet. “What’s the first step? Did your pretty Pack teach you how to track a wolf through concrete and gasoline?”
“The Pack taught me where to start,” I retorted. “Silas is a low-level accountant. He has a wife and two young children. He’s not a survivalist. He didn't plan this for long. He needed easy money and he needed a quick exit.”
I pulled up the comms device, which displayed a simple city map and Silas’s last known location near the waterfront.
“He didn't take a car, the scent is too old for that,” I said, focusing. I could almost filter out the exhaust fumes and the city noise. “He went on foot. He’s heading for the only thing the poor know how to use: the train line. He's not running to hide; he’s running to escape. The train station is three miles away.”
Jax glanced at the map, then at me. A flash of grudging respect flickered in his eyes, gone almost instantly. “Good. You think like a Pack wolf, but you track like a Rogue. Now show me the fast route.”
Ten minutes later, we were sprinting through a derelict, abandoned rail yard. I focused on the faint, metallic tang of Silas’s fear and the hurried, inconsistent pattern of his steps on the gravel—not the confident strides of a thief, but the desperate stumble of a man panicking.
“He cut through the old warehouse on Sector Seven,” I said, pointing at a giant, condemned building. “He didn’t make it to the main terminal. He heard the sirens or got scared. He’s inside.”
Jax nodded grimly. We moved into the shadows of the warehouse.
The inside smelled of mildew and dust. I moved silently, my training taking over. I could hear Silas’s shallow, ragged breathing hiding behind a stack of rusted oil drums.
“Silas,” Jax called out, his voice echoing, cold and clear. “Come out now, and this will be quick.”
Silas whimpered. He stumbled out from behind the drums, his hands shaking, his face tear-streaked. He was clutching a heavy duffel bag.
“I only took it for the kids! They need the medication! I was going to pay it back!” he pleaded, collapsing onto his knees.
I felt a sharp stab of guilt. My Pack instincts screamed: Do not harm the defenseless! But I was no longer Pack. I was a debt collector for the underworld.
“The money, Silas,” Jax commanded, stepping over him. He grabbed the duffel bag and roughly emptied it. Bundles of cash tumbled onto the floor. Jax quickly counted it. “Seventy-five thousand. Accurate. Good job, Tracker.”
I didn't feel good. I felt sick.
Jax looked down at Silas, who was still sobbing, clutching his knees. “You shouldn’t have run, Silas. You stole from Victor. And Victor values his reputation more than your children’s lives.”
Jax pulled a short, steel pipe from his jacket—a brutal, silent weapon.
“No!” I stepped forward, putting myself between Jax and the pathetic accountant. “He returned the money! He’s a civilian. He’s no threat. We completed the mission.”
Jax stopped, the pipe raised, and turned his full, frigid attention on me. He seemed genuinely shocked by my intervention.
“Mission completed? No, Aria. The mission is enforcement. We collect the debt, and then we make sure no one else thinks about doing it again.” Jax’s lip curled into a snarl. “Rule Number One: You do not question Victor. Rule Number Two: I am Victor’s voice right now.”
He lowered the pipe, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Move, little Pack dog. Or I’ll have to break you first to send the louder message.”
Silas was crying, staring at me with a desperate, pleading gaze. My mind raced: If I stood up to Jax, I would break the contract, and my father’s freedom would be forfeited. If I stepped aside, I was complicit in a brutal act of cruelty.
Jax gripped the pipe tighter. “Last chance, Aria. Step away.”
My feet were rooted to the spot. I hated the Rogue Alpha’s world. I hated Jax. But most of all, I hated the price of my father’s life.
Then, Jax’s cold voice cut through my thoughts, giving me a horrifying choice.
“Fine. You’re the Enforcer, Aria. You do it. Show me you’re not a sentimental liability. Break his leg.”
- Writer
