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  2. Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

  3. Severed Heart: Chapter 35
Severed Heart (Ravenhood Legacy Book 2)

Severed Heart: Chapter 35

SUMMER 2014

Fourth of July

Charlotte, North Carolinanoveldrama

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 stopped point-blank outside 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 prevent another massacre. 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 a solo act preventative 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’s the favor. If anything solid comes up indicating otherwise, it disappears.”
“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 the when. 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 bad personal decisions and 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 honored if accepted—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 guns while kickstarting 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 definitely not thankful for 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 become the runaway 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.
“I’ve been thinking the same, and we’ll have that conversation once you come through. Heads up, you’ll have some help from a little birdie, so keep your ringer on. He’ll be in touch in a few, and so will I.” I swallow. “I really need this—”
“Say no more. It’s done,” Phillip assures before cutting the call.
Easing off the gas when my radar alerts me there are cops ahead, I dread the fact that of all the fucking days that Dom decided to go rogue, this particular is one of a few in the calendar year that the number of cops on patrol increases significantly, making our collective task tonight a lot riskier. Holding up my cell in the dim light to dial, I can’t help but lash out.
“Shut the fuck up!” I bark toward the back, cursing the fact that I’ve been so short of time since this shit happened that I’ve been stalled in making the two most important phone calls.
“Want me to drive?” Russell asks, and I shake my head, adamant. Resigned to my mission—nothing fucking happens to Dom.
Another lone firework explodes, sliding across my windshield. The strays lit by individual residents to celebrate since shows have been canceled all across North Carolina due to the threat today. As it bursts in a cloud of glittering gold, I curse the geniuses who decided to honor freedom in any way by dedicating an entire night to plaguing vets who might not be able to handle hearing mock war in the sky. Some probably cowering from the inescapable nationwide celebration. Vets like my father, who just celebrated his latest sobriety chip two years in now, sadly falling off a second time in the years since he started rehab. A fall I didn’t and won’t condemn him for. Dialing the next number as I watched purple streak the sky, I’m thankful when Beekman also picks up on ring two.
“Hey motherfucker, I was just thinking about you,” he greets.
“Change of plans,” I clip, “no time to chat about the why. I need you on, now.”
“Done,” Beekman’s voice instantly morphs into all business, “talk to me.”
“I’m dropping off the finger paints the kids made in your jurisdiction within the hour.”
“I thought we were—”
“Like I said, change of plans, couldn’t be helped,” I reiterate, knowing Beekman is already doing what he can without flagging himself inside the Bureau to start to build his case against the dirty officials.
“Nail these motherfuckers,” I bite out with emphasis, “and make it look convincing, bro. They get no grace. Make their downfall a spectacle.”
“I’ll do my fucking worst,” Beekman assures.
“I feel the need to stress at this point that this can’t fall into anyone else’s hands but yours,” I relay, tightening my hand on the wheel, thankful as hell that Beekman set up shop in the last twelve months in a branch in the North Carolina sector of the FBI. His involvement is one of the reasons that Miami is so bent out of shape in wanting access to Beekman and any others like him. Access we fucking denied.
But with my favor being called in and Beekman being our inside bird to build the case, we’ll be close to out of the woods. As long as the trail on the ‘second suspected gunman’ goes ice cold, and the takedown of the military officials is enough to steal Dom’s current media spotlight.
“Don’t lose an ounce of sleep over this,” Beekman speaks up, sensing my state. In his imparting tone, I can practically hear his heavily bolded wings twitching to life. “I’ll snatch this shit from local as soon as I’m able. Just make sure you get it over state lines to make it federal.”
“Already on it,” I tell him. “Thanks, man.”
“Oh, it’s my fucking pleasure,” he declares, equally as offended for our military brethren. “Make sure to keep a few copies in your pocket in case they have someone on the inside to cover for them.”
“Fuck,” I snap, that possible oversight stinging me. “I didn’t even think of that. Will do.”
“Well, you can’t be Superman every day,” he jibes. “Rest easy, I’ve fucking been ready for this for too long,” he assures again. I can’t help the shared pride that this is precisely the kind of situation we’ve been breaking our fucking backs for years to position ourselves for.
“Not happy about the circumstances, but yeah,” I agree. “I’ll call you in a few.”
“Before you go, you need to know I have a few anxious friends waiting to meet you.”
“Good to know. We’ll catch up after my meeting, which is going down in twenty. I called in a favor,” I state. Though Beekman never got the call-up for the GRS, he’s spent his time wisely by obtaining his status in the FBI. “I’m sending you a number to the helping hand I mentioned who’s now chipping in on this bill. He’s waiting for your call. Gentle reminder, he’s ink free.”
“Say no more,” he clips before ending the call.
Holding my phone out to Russell, I give him my order. “Message the number I called first to the number I just hung up with.”
“On it . . . and fucking genius, bro,” Russell compliments, in the know about Phillip and Beekman as I glance back in my rearview at my other most trusted. Sean and I had decided to divide and conquer. My team consists of Denny, Jeremy, Russell, and Peter—whose earned ink is still fresh. All strapped and ready to do whatever it takes to protect our brother.
“Who’s got the prints?” I ask.
“I do.” Denny speaks up about the prints we extracted from the officials’ houses and transferred on some of the bullets for this purpose. With the victimless crimes we’re about to commit in addition to Dom’s this morning, it should be just enough to get our feathered fed the green light to yank it from local police’s hands. Our dilemma in bringing it to Beekman’s level was solved by Dom’s stunt this morning. Something Dom knew was necessary to further our plan—the brave, brilliant motherfucker.
“Keep a few in plastic for insurance,” I emphasize, and Denny nods.
“Listen up,” I snap as I slow to a stop outside the abandoned warehouse. “In and out, empty every fucking clip you’ve got, and straight back to the van. No variation,” I state as they crack open the back doors, and I turn in my seat to face them. “Keep sharp. Every second counts, and we’re going to be at this all fucking night. You with me?”
I get collective nods and small grunts of confirmation, all of them perked up and ready.
“Go,” I order as Russell leans over with a clap on my shoulder.
“Hang in, man, we’ve got him,” Russell assures in a show of solidarity as the weight tries to settle between my shoulders. Just as quickly, I bat the notion of failure away. I’ve been prepping for this for ten years, and I’ll be fucked if we go out like this.
As I watch Dom’s brothers covertly approach the warehouse, their training evident in their movements—a swell of pride thrums through me. More crashing into me as their collective gunfire lights the building up, making a pathetic mockery out of what’s happening in the sky. Just as quickly, they’re back in the van, the evidence planted for Beekman, as we speed away toward our next stop.
It strikes me then that it’s Delphine’s army marching tonight. Our strategy playing out so flawlessly because of the way she molded her soldier’s mind. To think and act as a shield to the street soldiers she predestined we would become. Her faith in my competence to guard them unwavering, even in the beginning. Which continues to ring true in my head and heart throughout the night as we fly through our mission in synchronized motion.
It’s when the sun starts to light up the horizon long hours later, and as her exhausted soldiers file out of the van, that the need to go to her starts to overwhelm me. It’s only when I’m behind my own wheel that I allow my eyes to burn with the sting reflecting in my chest.
Running my finger along the ridges of my wheel, I fight myself once more to keep from racing to her door. From telling her that we became the synchronized birds we are now because once upon a time, she took in a lost, mind-fucked teenager beneath her wing and nurtured the soldier within him.
Because of her.
All because of her.
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