Hearing the strain of my pounding feet on the treadmill of my office, I click the channel and browse through Fleet Media news stations.
Click
“. . . twelve trafficking hive leaders were found murdered in their homes last month, thirty additional arrests have been made. Authorities have reported that over six thousand children have been recovered in the last two weeks—”
Click
“The A-list is under cyber-attack today, and it’s not pretty, folks. New evidence has been circulating the web regarding several studio moguls, pop singers, producers, acclaimed actors, and even sports giants taking part in a disturbing ritual. Warning, the brief clip you’re about to see is not at all recommended for sensitive and younger viewers—”
Click
“This just in. Two military officials were discovered today, having been gunned down in their homes. Investigators at the scene reported looping video footage on every screen of the officials’ houses, including incriminating correspondence between the two officers. The two men were under investigation nearly a decade ago when charges were brought against them due to the discovery of a re-routed shipment of military-grade guns. One of which was found in the hands of Joshua Brown, the twenty-year-old who was shot dead outside of a North Carolina auditorium on the Fourth of July. Next to Joshua’s body was a duffle bag filled with military-grade guns and ammunition, along with printed online correspondence of his plans for a mass shooting to take place later that day. Though the second suspected gunman was never found, shell casings of the same weapons were discovered during a North Carolina crime spree which led to the arrest of both military officials. Both officials were charged but found not guilty due to insufficient evidence. But in light of investigators’ new findings—”
Click
“In the last two months, numerous reports have been flooding the airwaves in what officials, government agencies, and media alike have deemed the most methodical retribution plot in US history. The common ties to each, substantial and indisputable evidence, which has perplexed authorities. Many reports have labeled this movement the ‘Smoking Gun.’
“The FBI, CIA, DEA, and other government agencies are baffled by the surge of vile acts and crimes that have been brought to light but have not been able to identify a single suspect in connection to this phenomenal string of vigilante justice. The suspects, who took it upon themselves to act as investigators in addition to judge, jury, and executioner, still remain at large. These eye-opening events have since set off a chain reaction around the country, and many have come forth in aiding these vigilantes—”
Clicking off the TV, I slow the treadmill to cool down before walking a full minute in silence, his words echoing through me.
“You would think at least one of you would understand my struggle.”
My chest cracks in recollection as I absorb the domino effect Dom set into motion a year before he died.
Though satisfied with our progress since we left France, it’s as though not an ounce of the weight has left me. It’s no big surprise why. I memorized every detail Dom left us, along with his methodical plans to both expose and dispose of the trash. It’s the amount of planning that remains the most disturbing. The painstaking detail in which he laid it all out. The amount of time he spent with this in his head. Alone. Utterly alone in it all.
Feeling the burn in my chest and making peace with the fact that I may never know peace again, I make my way to the shower.
Minutes later, I wrap a towel around my waist as I pick through more than a dozen suits, expertly tailored to fit the President’s right-hand man. Today, I’m not him, and I won’t be until my task list is complete. Mine is much longer than everyone else’s—not out of spite but because Dom knew what position I would be in at some point.
Exhaustion tries to sneak its way in, but a little over two years into Monroe’s first term, I marvel at the fact that Dom’s next gift will help us exterminate enough in DC to win Monroe his next election. As invisible as Preston’s ink might be, he’s a raven through and through.
Allowing the day to settle in, I remember my brother for who he was and what he hid.
His secrets were always kept with the purpose of being our gateway.
He didn’t just shield us from the burden of knowing. He was biding his time for all of us so that, piece by piece, we got everything we needed to press forward and do it in the most impactful way.
I’m convinced now he felt his imminent death on those stairs all those years ago and no doubt started preparing in the year before he left us.
Whether he knew it or not, he knew enough and mapped our start.
Plucking a suit from my closet, I walk inside my bedroom as my cell rings. “Jennings.”
“Mr. Jennings, your car is here.”
“Thank you, I’ll be right down.”
Walking out of the hotel ten minutes later, I’m met by the sight of my temporary driver as his lips quirk up, eyes dancing with mirth.
Clint holds the door open, his driver’s uniform laughable as he greets me. “Good morning, Mr. Jennings.”
“Cut the bullshit,” I clip, my own lips lifting at the sight of him, looking whole and healthy compared to the night I drove him into an unknown future.
“Today’s the big day, huh?” Clint asks.
“Yeah, so let’s not keep him waiting.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, smirking as he closes the door and gets in the driver’s seat. Twenty minutes later, we pull up to the airport in wait.
“Heard the news,” Clint says while my eyes frantically search the terminal for any sign of him.
“Yeah?” I say as we share a smile in the rearview.
“It’s unbelievable, man, what you guys have accomplished,” he says with nothing but admiration in his voice.
“By someone else’s design,” I say, straightening my sleeve beneath my shirt jacket as Dom’s words strike me again.
“When we wait for someone to do something, no one ever fucking shows up.”
Just as his words reach me, Zach appears outside the terminal, civvies on, his hair only an inch thicker than when I picked him up from graduating basic. He cracks a smile a mile wide when I step out of the car, and I head in his direction. Neither of us breaks our stride as we embrace. My heart alight as we hold on a little tighter than the norm, and his whisper hits my ear. “Hey, Dad.”
Chest roaring with the sound of it, I clamp his broad shoulders and pull back slightly, eyes roaming over him. “You look good.”
“Feel good,” he says as Clint relieves him of his duffle, tossing it in the back of the SUV.
“You ready?” I ask.
“Been ready,” he reminds me. We’ve had a few arguments about when he would get inked, but we always agreed this day would come. What better place to commemorate the occasion than the place where it all began.
Three hours later, the three of us stand graveside as I scan the headstones lined up just past the iron gate—one belonging to my first and only love, and the other, my chosen brother. The two of them were so alike in so many ways that it was uncanny. Ways I never pointed out, but they were both aware of. Both of them were intuitive and fueled by their hearts, but those hearts were often stunted by their brilliant mind and need for independence. Impenetrable until they weren’t, and once you got in, you were made to feel it. I experienced the love of both those hearts, and it was incredible.
We all stare for a few beats at the headstone that reads PRINCE DECHU. Three generations of birds paying homage to the man who irrevocably changed each of our lives for the better. Who gave us purpose and made us part of the most valuable thing that continues to survive his death—his legacy.
Allowing the ache to have its way with me, I watch as Clint steps forward. He pulls his latest annual sobriety chip from his pocket before bending down to Dom’s grave, his words drifting back to Zach and me.
“I wanted you to have this one.” He pushes the chip into the ground in front of the gravestone. “You saved my life, brother. In more ways than one. Thank you.”
He slowly stands and lingers briefly before turning to Zach and me, palming my shoulder as Zach steps forward. Plastic wrapped around his fresh ink, he kneels, no longer resembling the gangly boy we collectively took in and sheltered, and brushes some of the debris from the weathering headstone.
“I . . .” his voice wavers slightly, and I understand every shake inside it. It’s been a long, hard road for both of us. Zach became a permanent part of my life at the worst imaginable time. At the brink of war, and while Delphine was losing her battle with cancer. His father hadn’t bothered looking for him, and I had to pin the fucker down and get persuasive for him to sign for the adoption. Even as my own hand trembled a little while finalizing the papers, I knew it was the best decision I would ever make. He became my son legally at fifteen—now a man, a fourth-generation marine, and a raven. I’ve never been more in awe of how things work out.
“You were right,” Zach tells Dom. “I’m nothing like him,” he relays hoarsely. “Dad says I’m a lot like you, and all I can say to that . . . is I fucking hope so.” He runs a hand along the top of the stone. “You gave me a family, and for that, I can’t thank you enough, Dom. We’ll be back.”
Zach stands and looks over at me with a reverent glaze in his eyes. I return his stare, hoping he sees the pride shining in mine as the burn keeps me mute.
Zach reads my expression and gestures toward Clint. “Let’s give him a minute.”
They both nod and take off through the gate and down the hill. Taking my time, I allow the memories to flood me, emotions churning as I stare at the etched date of the days I lost them. It feels just like yesterday, then again, a lifetime ago.
His words kick back to me as I stare down at his weathering stone.
“When we wait for someone to do something, no one ever fucking shows up.”
“I always believed you,” I whisper as every hair on my body stands on end. “You were the someone who did something—still are,” I choke around the burn in my throat. “I hope you’re seeing this, brother.”