Page 2

CHAPTER 2

JAX

Of course, he’s absent. Again. Second time in two weeks.

Not that I’m keeping track.

I just hate liars, and Pharo’s a big fat fucking liar.

Stiles leans in and whispers, “If you stare any harder at that chair, it’s gonna combust.”

My eyes narrow to slits. I’d like to melt the fucking plastic… then he won’t have a seat in this circle when he returns—whenever the fuck that is.

“Jax,” Riggs calls. The former combat medic turned physical therapist is doing his best to keep the meeting on track.

“What?” I snap irritably.

“I asked if you’d like to share.”

“No.” I’d rather sit here and choke on my hatred.

Riggs sighs. “If that’s all, then I’d like to leave you with a quote to chew over. Holding onto a grudge is like swallowing poison and hoping the other person dies. You’re doing more damage to yourself than the person you’re angry with.”

I guess that was meant for me. Smooth, Riggs . I turn my glare from the empty chair to him. “Wow, that’s deep. Thanks for enlightening me.”

Several of the guys around the circle are staring at me with judgmental or pitying looks, shaking their heads. They don’t get it. They think Pharo’s some deeply misunderstood guy who wrongly became the target of my scorn. He comes across as a good guy, mysterious, enigmatic, noble… but nothing could be further from the truth.

The truth is, Pharo Kendrix is a rotten, lying, irresponsible, conceited, reckless piece of shit.

He’s got everyone fooled—except me. I can see right through him, which isn’t tough since he’s shallow as fuck.

As the meeting winds down, the usual shift in energy fills the room—less tense, more relaxed. The buzz of conversation fills the space as the guys stand up from their chairs, stretching out the kinks from sitting too long, and pack away their knitting supplies.

“So, who's up for lunch?” Brandt asks, a grin on his face as he stacks his chair away.

I already know they’ll end up at the tavern for wings. Why they have to discuss it every fucking time, like somebody’s going to introduce a new idea, is beyond me.

“Same spot as last time?” Nash asks.

“Hey, Jax,” West calls, “you coming with?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ve got plans.”

West appears skeptical, but shrugs it off. “You sure you’re okay?”

“One hundred percent.”

He still doesn’t seem convinced. “Well, I’ll save you a seat just in case you change your mind.”

* * *

Taking a seat in front of Cerberus, the three screens come to life, casting a blue glow over my face. Just like the three-headed ancient mythical creature who guarded the underworld, my monitors represent transformation, power, and the ability to overcome obstacles.

My disability pension covers the basics, but it’s the other work—the work I do in the shadows—that pads my nest egg. Information is power, and I’ve become a master at collecting it. Names, addresses, phone numbers—anything someone needs, I can find it, track it, and compile it.

People don’t ask how I do it, and I don’t offer up details. They don’t need to know the methods, the sources, or the risks I take to get the intel they crave. All that matters is that I get results. Financial records, property deeds, background checks—you name it. The price is steep, but there’s always someone willing to pay for the kind of dirt that can change the course of their world.

I should be working on an assignment for my latest client, but instead, I’m up to the usual… gathering information on Pharo, so I can bust his ass wide-open.

So far, I haven’t found shit, except for his known address here in Black Mountain. He has a mother in a nursing home in Asheville and a sister in the Navy. Other than that, I can’t find a lick of info on him. I thought maybe he was hiding a secret family in another town, which would explain his frequent disappearances, but if he is, I haven’t found them… Yet.

I’m starting to think there’s a more nefarious reason for his absences. Is Pharo involved in something dark? Organized crime? Special ops? It’s a stretch, but it wouldn’t surprise me. If anyone is cut out for that kind of life, it’s Pharo. When I was under his command in the Army, he proved himself a capable leader. Quick thinking under pressure, and the ability to command respect and provide direction for an entire unit. He was an ace navigator and an expert marksman. As my commanding officer, Pharo was someone I admired… until he wasn’t.

The tailspin I fell into after his betrayal wiped out my ability to remain effective as a soldier. I was strapped to a desk like a toddler in time out until the end of my contract, where I was honorably discharged with a diagnosis on my record that labeled me a head case, and still follows me to this day, effectively barring me from decent employment.

Thanks a fucking bunch, Pharo.

Just one more thing on a long list of things he took from me, including my best friend.

Another nail in his coffin. There are so many, he should be six feet under by now. But in complete defiance of all that is fair and just in this world, Pharo is still kicking, and Jordan is lying in Pharo’s grave.

To add insult to injury, I still have to see Pharo almost every fucking day. That bond we shared, the unspoken understanding and trust, he shattered in ways that still feel raw when I think about it.

Every time I look back, it’s as if Pharo’s been chiseling away at my life, carving out pieces of me with each betrayal, each deception. The person I was—before he started taking—feels so far away, like someone I used to know. And now, with his continued deception so clear, forcing me to keep after him, to get close to him to uncover the truth of his lies, it feels like there’s no going back. All that’s left are echoes of who I was, tangled up with the remnants of what he left behind.

I’m not sure what hurts more—what he took or how little he seems to care.

There is no justice in this world. Right and wrong, good and evil, who fucking cares? All that matters to me is my brothers—keeping the ones still alive safe and validating those I’ve lost.

Reaching for the roll of antacids lying on my desk, I break off two and pop them in my mouth, grinding the fruity chalky tablets into a fine powder between my molars. They’re always within reach because just thinking of Pharo makes my stomach churn and my chest burn.

Joey:

Boo

His message pops up on my screen, bursting the bubble of my negative thoughts. I grab my vape off the desk and take a long pull, the scent of coconut and tangerine filling my nostrils as I type out a reply.

Always lurking.

Joey is a bright spot in my dark day. My co-conspirator. If I come across a firewall I can’t breach, Joey finds a way around it. When my head free-falls into a downward spiral, Joey is always lurking, just a keystroke away to boost me up again. Joey is a mystery. I don’t know anything about him except that he’s a hacker like me. His age, his whereabouts, and his former profession are all questions I might never have the answers to.

Joey:

You figure out that secret investor’s identity yet?

Not yet. Was just about to get to work.

Joey:

Bullshit. Quit lying to me and get after it.

I blow out a heavy sigh and chuckle. How does he know I was fucking around? He always knows. I swear to God he’s hacked my WebCam and is spying on me. Hence, the duct tape over the lenses.

It’s not paranoia, it’s a safety precaution. You can never be too careful. I met Joey in a hackers forum online. Located on the dark web, it’s a place where we trade information and resources. Basically, tips on how to breach firewalls. Joey slid into my DM‘s and we connected instantly.

Busting Pharo will have to wait. I have real work to do, paying work, and I need the money because my bike needs a new set of tires.

By the time I finish finding the information I need, the sun has set outside the sliding glass door of my living room. I stand up and stretch my back, twisting from side to side until I hear it crack. Time to figure out dinner. There’s nothing in my fridge except a jar of jelly and some cold cuts.

Damn, I should have joined the Bitches for lunch. At least then I would have some leftovers to eat now. Looks like dinner is going to be another PB&J sandwich. The third one this week.

Not that I mind, I’m not a fancy guy with highfalutin’ taste. Everything in my apartment was bought at a big box store. In fact, the most valuable things I own are my bike and my computers. Going to the Black Mountain Tavern with the guys is my idea of a night out on the town. If I’m invited somewhere and I can’t wear jeans and a T-shirt, I’m not going.

For years in the Army, I lived out of a footlocker and a rucksack. To this day, I still keep a go bag packed and ready in my closet in case of an emergency.

I don’t just travel light, I live light.

My buddy McCormick has this firebox analogy. According to him, if your house were on fire, you should be able to fit everything worth taking in a single box. Shit, I can fit everything worth taking in the pocket of my jeans. Basically, just my bike keys and the memory stick from my computer. Everything else can burn to the ground for all I care. None of it holds sentimental value to me. I carry my memories in my head and my heart so they can travel with me wherever I go. I can never lose them, and no one can ever take them from me.

They are a necessary part of me, like a vital organ. The anger I feel over Jordan's death keeps me going each day. It gives me purpose, a reason to wake up and keep fighting.

A reason to start each new day despising Pharo’s existence.

Every time I see his stupid, perfect face smiling, laughing, living life like he doesn’t have a care in the world, it fuels my anger and keeps me going.

His time will come. One of these days, I'll make sure Pharo pays for what he did.