Jax's safehouse was a basement underneath a tattoo shop.
She knocked on the back door — three fast, two slow. A slot opened. A pair of yellow eyes looked out, looked at Jax, and looked at the rest of us. The slot closed. Locks clicked. And the door swung open.
The man behind it was short and broad, with his arms covered in tattoos and a shotgun resting against his hip. He looked at Jax and grunted.
"Friends," Jax said.
He looked at me. At Sarah. At Maya's rifle. At Tiny, who barely fit through the doorway. Then he stepped aside without a word and pointed down.
We went down.
The basement was bigger than I expected. Concrete walls. A low ceiling. Old couches lined the sides, their fabric torn and stuffing spilling out. A table stood in the center, covered in maps and food wrappers. A single light hung from a chain above, swaying whenever someone walked heavily on the floor above.
