Page 134 of Severed Heart

SUMMER 2014

Fourth of July

Charlotte, North Carolina

BLINK.

Sporadic, colorful blasts of light streak across my windshield, thrusting me briefly back into the battle I lost on that sidewalk two years ago. Pushing any lingering ache of the recollection of that night aside, I gas it toward downtown Charlotte in one of multiple nondescript vehicles on the same mission. Ravens currently spreading in all directions for the very same purpose—to protect Dom at all costs.

My current mental state is the same as it was this morning. Stuck in a mind-blowing mix of terror, fury, and fucking awe to try to cover up the fact that my brother went rogue this morning by halting a mass murderer’s plans. Plans eradicated in the dead stare of Joshua Brown—the kid Dom stoppedpoint-blankoutside that stadium. A stadium that was set to be filled to the brim tonight with unsuspecting families to watch fireworks. But with Dom’s act of bravery comes the toll that goes with the tough call he made to preventanothermassacre. The nature and likes of similar killing sprees are becoming far too fucking common in our country. And it’s the corrupt fucks like the military officials we’ve been investigating and plotting against for weeks, who put guns meant for soldiers into the hands of sick kids like Joshua Brown. Officials rerouting crates of arms meant to be safeguarded on military bases back to US soil and into the streets, sold indiscriminately to the highest bidder, no matter their intent of use.

Making officials and others like them enemy number one for me—outside of Roman.

Another shot of adrenaline shoots up my spine as I press a little harder on the gas with the overwhelming need to protect Dom from further detriment. Other than the moral battle I’m certain is currently warring inside him, his words from this morning gutting me while ringing true.

“When we wait for someone to do something, no one ever fucking shows up.”

Determined to not only show up but do everything within my power to shield him, I lift my cell phone while shouting back in the van full of birds to cut out some of their rushed chatter. Dialing a number I created with my last mission, specifically for times such as these, I’m thankful when Phillip answers on the second ring.

“I was wondering when and if I would hear from you,” Phillip greets.

“I’m calling to collect my first favor,” I manage to convey over the cocking of guns behind me as Russell stirs to attention where he rides passenger. Impossibly, Russell’s become even more invaluable during my time away. Successfully networking with Sean to further cement and implement club rules. As my first and most trusted recruit, I’ve been considering promoting Russell as my second-in-command, especially since I plan on taking extended leave if and when Preston gets elected.

“I’m listening,” Phillip speaks as I will every bit of fatigue to drain from my body, confident Sean and his most trusted are doing their part—to shield Dom by any means fucking necessary.

“There was an incident in North Carolina this morning.”

A brief pause. “I’m aware,” Phillip finally replies.

“I’m working on rearranging the details surrounding it. What happened was asoloactpreventative in nature.”

“No second?” he asks, speaking of the ‘second suspected gunman’ currently being reported by news channels as armed and dangerous across every news station while Dom is simultaneously being hunted by authorities statewide.

“He doesn’t exist,” I clip, “and never did,that’sthe favor. If anything solid comes up indicating otherwise, itdisappears.”

“I see ... then consider it done, and I’ll do you one better,” Phillip states, as I hold up my fist to Russell to get the squawking idiots behind me to quiet down. A heartbeat later, all chatter ceases.

“What’s that?” I prompt Phillip.

“In taking your word for it, this one is on the house,” he relays as I exhale my first breath of relief since I faced off with Dom in our junkyard hours ago. A confrontation in which I finally glimpsed the haunted look in his eyes that he’s been shielding us from for months. The look of a heavily weighed down, highly fatigued soldier who’s close to his breaking point. A feeling I’m all too fucking familiar with.

No matter how hard I’ve tried in recent months to get him to open up, Dom’s dodged and hedged my every attempt, just as determined to protect me from similar evils that I’ve already gone toe to toe with. His knowledge of my time in the GRS is extremely limited due to the mental struggles I’m still dealing with. So, along with my worry for Dom’s mental state comes the added dilemma of relaying this situation to his brother and thewhen. Another to add to our list of crimes against Tobias that started with our mutual homecoming.

A long-awaited homecoming for Dom and me that was kicked off by the sudden appearance and invasion of one Cecelia Leann Horner. Since then, it’s been a free-for-all shit show in badpersonal decisionsand hell on earth in keeping them none of my fucking business due to their effect on the club.

With Cecelia now heavily in the mix, involved with both my brothers, and now teetering on the knife point of indecision in joining—an invitation I’m not even sure could be honoredifaccepted—it’s been a three-ring circus juggling act. The task list is stacking up with pacifying Dom’s bristling need to free himself of Tobias’s unrelenting hold, our mounting tensions with Miami, as well as discovering crates of gunswhilekickstarting our revenge plans against Roman. Scribbling in the addition of investigating the crates’ origins and backstory involving dirty military, and I’m close to running out of mental ink. Daily, I feel like I’m watching multiple explosive-filled cargo trains speeding toward one another on a rapidly appearing track, with little to no way to stop them.

I’ve been tackling the insurmountable list of shit piling up as best I can, thankful for the hustle to keep time from drifting by, from revisiting daydreams I should have long forgotten. But I am most definitelynot thankfulfor the number of fucking trains I’m trying to reroute or altogether derail. As much as my stance hasn’t changed on getting involved in the personal, Dom, Sean, and Cecelia’s ménage has becometherunaway train likely to be most caustic.

“Jennings?” Phillip prompts, jarring me back into my most pressing worry.

“I’m here, just keep me updated.”

“I’m on it now, and it will be done,” he declares.

“Appreciate it.”

“Sometime soon, you’re going to have to give me some insight into what you’re up to these days,” Phillip relays. Something I’ve considered since I ended my time in the GRS, knowing Phillip’s involvement would be advantageous for the club on so many levels.