Page 5

CHAPTER 5

JAX

My thighs press against the fuel tank, vibrating with the engine's hum as I roll into the parking lot of my building. This morning, I was climbing the walls with anxiety, popping antacids like candy, when a couple of guys from the ALR texted me they were going riding, and I jumped at the chance.

I’m not close with the guys from the American Legion of Riders, not like I am with the Bitches, but mostly, they’re good people and it’s safer than riding alone.

The narrow, winding roads of western North Carolina’s mountains are treacherous even in the best conditions. With fog, rain, or heavy tourist traffic, they quickly become a danger.

But the ride did me good. Cleared my head and brought everything into focus. After my run-in with Pharo the day before yesterday, my head is filled with questions. Having that asshole on my mind all day nearly gave me an ulcer.

I knew he had a mother in Asheville, which was confirmed when I followed him. I was hoping he would make another stop, somewhere that would give me more information, but he went straight home after his visit. After seeing the inside of his townhouse, I have more questions than answers.

Everything was nice, top of the line. The electronics, the furniture, the decor. None of it came from a discount store like my stuff did. None of his furniture came from a box that you have to assemble. Pharo lives in a gated community with twenty-four-hour security, drives a brand new truck, and his bike, a Triumph Rocket 3 GT, costs more than everything I own combined, including my bike and computers.

I did some digging and found out the nursing home his mother is in costs way more than what her insurance pays out. How does he cover the difference? And then there’s that vacant lot registered under his name on the outskirts of town. I drove by and saw nothing but a fenced lot with a bunch of weeds. What is he doing with it, and how does he afford all of that?

As I rode, I started piecing together what I knew about Pharo. What kind of job demands constant travel, pays a fortune, and gets you stabbed in the gut? The answer is obvious—Pharo's a hitman. It all adds up!

Maybe he got desperate when he couldn’t afford to pay for his mother’s care.

Maybe he figured since he already killed Jordan, what’s a few more bodies? Might as well make a living at it.

The only certainty I have is that Pharo’s up to something shady. I’ll need to keep a closer eye on him.

After grabbing a quick shower, I change into a fresh pair of jeans and my favorite Jane’s Addiction T-shirt, which has more holes than a cheese grater, and take a seat in front of Cerberus. The screens flicker to life as I move the mouse, unlocking my gateway to the world. From this portal, almost nothing is out of reach.

Joey:

Fucking finally! You’ve been offline all day.

Miss me?

Joey:

Nah. The warm glow from my keyboard kept me company.

The hours slip by as we trade one-liners, keeping things light, a rhythm we’ve fallen into without thinking. Each of us focused on our own tasks, the hum of my workstation fills the silence, punctuated only by our exchanges. There's a strange comfort in it, though—knowing he's there, just on the other end of the fiber-optic connection.

Joey and I don’t know each other intimately, not in the traditional sense. We’ve never shared the kind of moments that build deep, personal bonds. But the way we interact in this digital space—casual, easy, with no expectations—makes the hours feel less like time dragging on and more like something to get through together.

It’s funny. How someone’s virtual presence can fill the space between loneliness and connection. I don’t feel the loneliness of isolation as much when I know he’s there, typing away, handling his own business, but still within reach. His messages are a kind of reassurance, even if we don’t dive deep into anything personal. It’s enough that we’re just there —two separate worlds colliding, if only for a moment.

In this weird, disconnected way, I don’t feel as alone as I usually do.

The knock at my door cuts through the quiet, interrupting my thoughts and pulling me out of the comfortable haze I’d been drifting in. I reach for the vape on my desk, and I take a hard pull, inhaling deeply. The tropical beach flavor hits my lungs, a sharp contrast to the tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying. I exhale slowly, watching the cloud drift lazily in the air before pushing myself up from the chair.

I wasn’t expecting anyone, but it’s probably a Bitch, coming to check on me because I haven’t responded to the annoying-ass group chat in hours.

“Riggs? What’s up?” Not the Bitch I was expecting.

His eyes move around my cramped apartment, taking in the small loveseat and TV, overshadowed by the dominating presence in my place: Cerberus. There's a slight pause before he steps in, like he’s unsure whether to cross the threshold. It’s not that my place is unwelcoming—sterile, maybe—but Riggs is the kind of guy who notices everything, and I’m not in the mood to pretend that everything is fine.

“How are you?” Riggs asks, his tone casual, like he’s testing the waters.

A normal greeting, an expected one, but it grates on me right now. I take a long drag from my vape, blowing the cloud out slowly.

“Good. Same as ever,” I reply, my voice flat, my eyes locked on him.

He walks past me toward the galley-style kitchen, his gaze flicking over the mess of dirty dishes stacked in the sink, probably judging how long they've been sitting there. It’s not like I’ve got the time to clean up right now. Not with everything else weighing on me.

“Sleeping well?” he asks next, the question almost too routine.

I can feel the tension in my shoulders start to rise. I can’t take the pointless small talk any longer. “Riggs? You got something on your mind?”

He blows out a breath, a deep, almost relieved exhale, like he was waiting for me to cut through the nonsense. His shoulders sag, his posture loosening a little.

“I’m worried about you,” he says, his gaze shifting toward me with a touch of concern I can’t shake.

The concern hits me like a cold splash of water. Riggs doesn’t mince his words, and right now, they cut deeper than usual. I feel the defensive reflex rise in me, but I hold it back, knowing that’s not going to get me anywhere.

“Me?” I repeat, a little incredulous.

“You seem angry,” he says, and I can’t help but feel that bite of truth. “Well,” he amends, “angrier than usual. Then you skipped out on lunch with the guys, and you’ve been MIA today. Come to think of it, yesterday too. You hiding out?”

He’s seen through my act, noticed the cracks, and now it feels like the burden of my day is crushing me all at once. Maybe he’s right, but I don’t want to admit it. Not to him, not to anyone.

“Hiding? From who?” Besides Pharo… and myself.

“I think you should speak to Brewer,” Riggs suggests, his tone careful but firm. I can hear the implication, the strain of everything I’ve been avoiding. His eyes catch the defensive spark in mine, and he adds in a rush, “Just casually. Between friends. Or you can speak to me. But something’s gotta give, Jax. You can’t keep going like this.”

I cross my arms, trying to shrug it off, but I know better than to dismiss him outright. The tightness in my chest tells me I can’t ignore it. “Like what?” I ask, though I already know what he means.

“Angry, defensive, in denial, isolating,” he lists, his voice soft but urgent. “It’s not healthy. You can only run from your past for so long, but the Earth is round, and eventually, your demons will catch up with you.”

His warning hangs heavy in the air, and I’m not sure if I want to punch him for saying it or thank him for finally speaking the truth. The thing is, he’s right. I’ve been running. Maybe not physically, but in every other way I can. Hiding out, avoiding the guys, pretending like everything is fine. But it’s not. And it hasn’t been for a while now.

I drag my hand through my spiky hair, and life’s relentless pull feels heavier than ever. I’m tired of pretending and running, but I’m not sure I’m ready to face what comes next. Hadn’t Pharo said basically the same thing the other night? That it’s time to let go and move on? But how? How do I let go of the thing that gives me a reason to get out of bed each day? The thing that drives me through life when I want to quit?

“I don’t need a therapist, Riggs,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.

“I’m not saying you do,” he replies, his voice gentler now, a touch of sympathy creeping in. “I’m saying you don’t have to carry it alone. Just… don’t let it swallow you whole, man.”

I swallow hard, and for a moment, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to let go. To talk about it, and not just keep bottling it all up. But that’s the problem. I don’t know if I can.

“I’m not making any promises, but I’ll think about it,” I say, my voice flat, trying to give him just enough to get him off my back, at least for now.

“That’s all I’m asking,” Riggs replies, his tone steady, like he’s satisfied with my answer.

But I know better. Bullshit. Riggs doesn’t ask. Not really. He’s not the type of guy to throw out a request and let it slide if you don’t follow through. No, when he says something, it’s not just a suggestion—it’s an order wrapped in the guise of concern. Everything he says feels like it's coming from the highest command, and if you don’t comply, he’ll remind you of it sooner rather than later.

He’s always been like that, and I’ve learned to play along, even if it chafes. I can already hear the speech he’s going to give me next time we talk if I don’t take him seriously. He won’t let it go. Not until I cave in, until I do what he expects me to do.

I let out a quiet sigh, trying to ignore the knot forming in my stomach. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I need to stop running from my past. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to forgive or forget.

The nightmare comes in waves, relentless and suffocating. I’m back in Iraq, the landscape just as I remember it—endless, hot, and choking. The sand whips through the air, swirling in violent gusts, a fine grit that scratches my skin, seeps into my throat, and drying out my mouth. The sun burns down from a sky that feels like it's closing in, the oppressive heat wrapping around me like a vice, suffocating me with every breath. Dark clouds hover above, swirling in unnatural patterns, casting ominous shadows across the barren wasteland.

In the distance, a raven caws—a harsh, grating sound that echoes through the stillness. Another one joins, and then another, their wings beating the air in eerie unison. They circle, dive-bombing with twisted intent, always watching, always waiting, for death.

Through the haze of sand and smoke, Jordan emerges. My best friend, the one I lost so many years ago. He’s alive again, standing there, looking the same as he did in those final moments—the way I remember him: laughing, joking, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder. But there’s something wrong, something off about him. His face is pale, and his eyes hold a distant, haunted shadow, like he’s no longer the person I remember.

“Jordan?” I reach for him, calling out above the rushing wind.

“Jax,” Jordan says, his voice sounding distant, like he’s fading. “You came back for me, right?”

I open my mouth to respond, but the words catch in my throat. Trapped by the sand and the fear of losing him again. Am I dreaming, or is this real? The burden of guilt presses down on me like a physical force, crushing me.

The air grows heavier with every step I take toward Jordan, and the ravens’ caws grow louder, more frantic.

From behind, I hear the crunch of boots on sand. I’m afraid to turn around, to take my eyes off Jordan, even for a second. What if he’s gone when I turn back?

But I feel compelled to turn, and standing in the shadows is Pharo. My Master Sergeant. My friend. Pharo’s face twists into a strange, unsettling grin, one that I haven’t seen before. It’s no longer a look of friendship, but one of something darker—something menacing.

I can’t trust him. “Pharo?” My voice sounds shaky.

Pharo steps forward, but instead of the reassuring presence I once felt, he’s different now. His eyes are cold, calculating, and as he approaches, I see blood staining his uniform, dripping from his calloused hands.

“What the hell is this?” I stammer, my heart racing as I gaze at my old friend.

The nightmare shifts. Suddenly, Pharo’s body turns black, like a dark ethereal shadow. A harbinger of death. The man I trusted with my life is now the embodiment of everything that went wrong—the one responsible for Jordan’s death. The one who turned his back on his team and left them to die.

“You should have known, Jax,” Pharo sneers, his voice low, filled with contempt. “You think I cared about him ? Jordan was expendable. Always was. If anyone is to blame for his death, it’s you.”

My chest tightens, the air becoming so thick and hot it’s collapsing my lungs. The suffocating heat from the sand, the weight of the guilt, the images of Jordan's lifeless, mangled body... it all comes crashing back. When I turn back, I know what I’ll see. Pieces of my best friend were scattered around the sand, picked apart by the ravens.

I try to scream, to reach out to Jordan, but my legs won’t move. My body is paralyzed, trapped in the nightmare’s grip.

“Jordan… no…” I whisper, but my voice is barely a breath, drowned out by the screech of the ravens and the thunder of Pharo’s laughter.

The landscape shifts again, and now Jordan’s face contorts in pain, his eyes pleading with me. But it’s too late. The nightmare is spinning out of control, and I’m caught in the middle of it, drowning in the suffocating grief of loss and betrayal.

I bolt forward with a sharp gasp. My body jerks, my heart pounding in my tight chest, sweat dripping down my face. Blinking rapidly, I’m disoriented and dizzy, my mind struggling to separate the dream from reality. My neck feels stiff from falling asleep in my chair, slumped over the desk. My hands still rest on the keyboard, the glow of the screen illuminating the room in sickly light. The nightmare lingers, the remnants of it gnawing at the edges of my mind, but reality slowly creeps in.

Swallowing hard, I try to shake off the panic that grips my chest. The air in the room feels too thick, too heavy. I stumble from my chair, my legs shaking like jelly as I make my way to the kitchen. I fumble the glass I reach for but recover it before it crashes to the floor, and fill it with water, drinking greedily, the cool liquid doing little to calm the storm inside me.

I can’t keep running from this. From the past. From the guilt. From the grief.

Reaching for my vape, my eyes land on the phone beside it, and after a long hit to steady my racing heart, I pick it up. The screen flickers as I scroll through my contacts. I pause when I get to Brewer’s name. The one person who might be able to help, who might be able to pull me out of my living nightmare.

I pause, gazing at his name, feeling the gravity of my choice. Then, with a deep breath, I press call.

It's time.