The Dead Drop

POV: Malia

Jarrah threw the burner phone onto the desk, the cheap plastic clattering against the metal surface. The harsh overhead bulb caught the silver scar slicing through his left eyebrow, making his hardened expression look even more severe. I knew that look. It meant someone had crossed a line, and the fragile peace we’d been navigating all week was officially dead. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. The silence in the cramped office stretched out, heavy and suffocating, until I finally uncrossed my arms and took a step toward his desk. I wasn't going to let him box me out, not after everything we'd survived to get to this point.

"Don't tell me," I said, keeping my voice level. "Sorenson."

Jarrah leaned his weight against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his black Henley. The scent of motor oil and cold rain drifted off his clothes, a sharp contrast to the stale cigarette smoke lingering in the walls. I hated when he got like this, locked away in his own head, calculating risks and leaving me on the outside looking in. The familiar ache of rejection flared in my chest, a bruised feeling I was getting far too used to ignoring. I mirrored his stance, planting my feet firmly on the scuffed linoleum, refusing to look away first. The air between us practically hummed with unsaid arguments. He let out a slow, measured breath, the tension in his shoulders dropping just a fraction.

"Sorenson's crew is moving the shipment tonight," Jarrah said, his voice a low gravel. "Pier 35. Midnight."

I stepped closer, close enough to see the exhaustion bruising the skin under his dark eyes. The dockyards were a labyrinth of rusted metal and blind corners, the worst possible place for a quiet interception. My mind raced through the layout, counting the entry points, the lack of cover, the sheer stupidity of walking into a rival syndicate's territory in the middle of the night. Panic threatened to spike in my throat, but I forced it down, burying it under a layer of cold logic. I reached out, my fingers brushing the edge of the desk near his hip, a deliberate anchor in the shifting room. He glanced down at my hand, his jaw tightening. The space between us suddenly felt entirely too small. If we went to the docks, we were walking into a meat grinder.

"We don't have the manpower for an open raid," I told him. "You know that."

"I know." Jarrah pushed off the desk, pacing toward the small window overlooking the alley. The yellow streetlamp cast long, distorted shadows across his face. "Which is why it won't be a raid. It’ll be a conversation. Just me and Sorenson’s lieutenant."

"A conversation." I let out a harsh laugh, the sound scraping against my throat. The metallic hum of the ancient radiator in the corner suddenly seemed deafening. He was lying to me, or worse, lying to himself, and the sheer arrogance of it made my blood run hot. The fear I’d been wrestling with mutated into bright, sharp anger. I walked right up behind him, stopping just inches from his back, demanding he turn around and face me. He went completely still, his muscles tense under the thin cotton of his shirt. We were teetering on a razor's edge, one wrong word away from a fight we couldn't afford.

"You think they're going to talk?" I asked for his back. "They're going to put a bullet in your head the second you clear the gates."

Jarrah turned slowly. He didn't step back. We were chest-to-chest, the heat radiating off him cutting through the chill of the drafty room. I looked up into his eyes, searching for the reckless criminal I had first met, but all I saw was a man cornered by his own code of loyalty. It terrified me how much I understood him, how deeply I had let myself care about a man whose life was measured in bullets and bad deals. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the looming shootout and everything to do with the way he was looking at me. I swallowed hard, refusing to break eye contact. The anger bled out of the room, leaving behind something raw and dangerous. He lifted a hand, his rough knuckles grazing my jaw before he caught himself and dropped his arm.

"I have to go, Malia," he said quietly.

"Then I'm going with you."

He shook his head immediately, turning away to grab his leather jacket from the back of the chair. The leather creaked, a harsh sound in the quiet room. He was dismissing me, packing me away into a safe little box so he could go play martyr. Frustration hit me like a physical blow, heavy and suffocating. I stepped into his path, blocking the door. My chin tipped up, my entire body braced for the argument. The standoff stretched, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a stubborn intensity. Neither of us was going to back down.

"You're not trained for this," Jarrah warned, his voice dangerously soft.

"I'm trained enough to watch your blind spots," I shot back. "And if you walk out that door alone, you're not coming back. I won't let you do that."