The Objective

Jax blinked. "The date?"

He tried to glance at his tactical watch, but Lena pressed the baguette harder against his throat.

"It’s October 18th," Lena said. "Does that ring a bell? Or did all the concussions finally scramble that expensive brain of yours?"

Jax frowned, his mind racing. October 18th. Was it a birthday? No, hers was in June. An anniversary? No, they weren't... officially... anything. They were partners. The best shooter-spotter team in the Eastern Hemisphere.

"It’s a Tuesday?" Jax guessed weakly.

Lena released him abruptly. She turned her back on him and walked to the counter, grabbing the dough scraper like ashiv.

"Get out."

Jax rubbed his throat, coughing. "Lena, come on. I just got back from Istanbul. It was a extraction job. High priority. Look."

He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a velvet pouch. He tossed it onto the flour-dusted counter. It landed with a heavy *thud*.

"Diamonds," Jax said, flashing his winning smile—the one that usually got him out of customs checks and speeding tickets. "Conflict-free, mostly. Enough to buy a new oven. Or a tank. Whatever you want."

Lena stared at the pouch. She didn't touch it.

"I don't want diamonds, Jax. I wanted the plan."

She pointed a shaking finger at the calendar hanging by the fridge. The date *October 15th* was circled in thick red marker. Written inside the circle were two words: *RETIREMENT DAY.*

Jax stared at the calendar. The blood drained from his face faster than if he’d been shot.

The memory hit him like a flashbang.

*Prague. Six months ago. They were pinned down in a warehouse, bleeding, out of ammo. Lena had looked at him, wiping smoke from her eyes, and said, "If we make it out, we’re done. October 15th. We meet in Berlin. We open the bakery. No more guns. No more ghosts."*

*And he had shaken her hand. He had sworn a blood oath.*

"Oh," Jax whispered.

"Oh," Lena mocked, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I’ve been here for three days, Jax. I signed the lease. I bought the flour. I sat in this kitchen for seventy-two hours waiting for you to walk through that door so we could lock it behind us forever."

She gestured to the corner of the room.

There, sitting by the pantry, was a single duffel bag. Packed.

"You were leaving," Jax realized, his chest tightening.

"I gave you a three-day grace period," Lena said, turning back to her dough. She slammed the scraper down. "Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought, 'Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he’s captured.' But you weren't captured. You were just working."

"Lena, it was one last job," Jax stepped forward, reaching for her. "The payout was huge. I thought—"

"You thought I was another mission," Lena cut him off. She didn't look at him. "You thought the bakery was a joke. A cute little cover story."

"No," Jax said, panic rising in his throat. This wasn't a negotiation he could charm his way out of. "No, Lena. It wasn't a joke."

"Then why aren't you retired?" Lena spun around. "Why are you wearing a vest? Why do you have a comms piece in your ear? You're still in the game, Jax. And I’m done playing."

She grabbed the duffel bag.

"Enjoy the diamonds," she said, walking toward the back door. "I hear they make great company."

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