Page 135 of Seizing Control: Part Two

When the call is ended ten seconds later, I’m left open-mouthed.

“The live streams are working,” Layla tells Lazarus. She takes her phone back, then perches on the arm of the couch. While her fingers move swiftly, the darkhaired woman comments in an off-handed manner, “Narrative is set—sympathetic to us, of course. Cops have been ordered to maintain a perimeter in addition to ours. The Premier’s office has issued a press release announcing a media conference in an hour.”

“Good.”

A ponytail flick is her only response.

The Adjudicator’s conscience and counsellor is in a world of her own.

In a loose huddle consisting of the man that I once knew inside and out, my mute SAA, and myself, we regard each other like the others are strangers. Lazarus seems resigned to an argument. Toker is visibly bristling, even as he refuses to acknowledge our resurrected friend. They haven’t engaged since Cherub was rushed to hospital and her first love was resurrected as a suit wearing entrepreneur who speaks like the posh bastards he once mercilessly mocked.

As far Toker is concerned, Lazarus doesn’t exist.

Personally, I’m at a loss as to how to approach our current circumstances.

This situation is beyond my wildest imagination, but I’ve been privy to it from the start.

I can’t imagine how Toker feels about it all.

We deliberately kept him in the dark.

The lies we told, the trust we lost in the midst of Gabriel’s plan, were for a good cause.

We did it to save my wife from Brutus’ betrayal.

In the meantime, we fucked over our closest friend.

We destroyed our bond.

Our legacy was the Shamrocks. Our future mapped out from birth. Venom was supposed to be the president. I was preordained as his VP. As our steadiest shot, moral arbiter, and jokester rolled into one solid and trustworthy stoner, Toker was intended to become the sergeant-at-arms.

The silent man to my left is the only person living his destiny.

I’ve stolen Venom’s fate—his life, his dream, his woman.

And the man named Venom is dead.

“I’m out,” Toker announces. “This is above my patch... ain’t worth the headache. Not when we have another brother to mourn.” Without waiting for my permission, he pushes past Lazarus to head for the exit. The new Adjudicator seizes hold of his upper arm and yanks him to a stop. Green eyes flashing with unconcealed rage, my SAA snarls, “Let me go.”

“No.”

Using his non-dominant hand, Toker unholsters his handgun and notches the muzzle to Lazarus’ temple. “Move outta my way, motherfucker.”

Unflinching, there’s isn’t an ounce of alarm in Lazarus’ expression as he repeats, “No.”

“I’m not doin’ this with you—not now, not ever. Our friendship died with Venom.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

My gaze ping-pongs between them.

This showdown has been coming for days.

Toker was badly affected by Venom’s death. He spent his time doting on his cousin, shadowing Cherub everywhere, so he didn’t find himself alone. Time and space are dangerous when you’re avoiding your emotions.

Benedict Cherub is a pro at denial.

He has spent his life acting as our diffuser. Always the one to break the tension. Ready with a joke, a glass of Jack Daniels, and a joint. He would punch on with Venom when he needed a circuit breaker. Ride with me for hours when I was trying to clear my head. Take my wife out to the Shamrocks gun range and shoot targets in the middle of the night to stop her from spiralling.

---