Page 49 of Heresy
My entire being is focused on driving, on survival. I swerve hard, the side of the van scraping against a brick wall with a high-pitched shriek of metal. My mind should be on the road, on the enemy, but it's split. I'm a beast behind the wheel, but I'm also acutely aware of the sounds from the back—Doc working frantically on Rook, Zero returning fire with a cold, professional fury, and her.
"Van approaching from the rear! Fast!" Her voice is not the scream of a terrified civilian. It's the clean, precise report of a spotter. An asset.
I look in the rearview mirror and see the headlights of a heavy van bearing down on us. I grit my teeth and push the engine to its limit, hurtling through the dark, deserted streets of my kingdom, fighting a war I didn't know I was losing until it was too late.
I takea hard right down a narrow, unlit alley, the side mirrors of the van scraping against brick with a high-pitched shriek. In the rearview, I see the pursuing SUV try to follow, but it’s too wide. It slams into the corner of the building, its front end crumpling. Two more turns, a short, jarring ride over a curb andthrough a deserted lot, and we're clear. The sounds of the chase fade behind us.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull the van into the back of a nondescript commercial laundry service in an industrial park on the edge of the city. From the outside, it’s nothing. Inside, it’s one of our sanctuaries.
We haul Rook inside, his breathing shallow, a rattling sound in his chest. The front of the building is a legitimate business, but the back is a clean, well-lit medical bay that Doc maintains for nights exactly like this. It smells of bleach and ozone.
The moment we get Rook onto the steel operating table under the harsh glare of the surgical lights, the tension shifts. The loud, kinetic violence of the firefight is gone, replaced by a quiet, desperate fight for a single life. Doc is in his element, a whirlwind of motion, barking orders for supplies, his voice calm and authoritative.
And I can do nothing.
This is a new kind of hell. I can’t punch this problem. I can’t shoot it. My power, my authority as President, is utterly useless here. I am just a man, forced to stand guard and watch as my best friend's life hangs by a thread, the rhythmic, failing beep of the heart monitor a countdown to my own personal apocalypse. Zero stands beside me, a statue carved from granite, his usual cold composure fractured by the raw, helpless fear in his eyes.
Doc is working frantically, trying to clamp a bleeder in Rook's chest. "Pressure," he snaps, his hands occupied. "I need pressure here, now!"
Before I can even move, a smaller pair of of hands is there. Vera.
She is at Doc’s side, her hands now covered in Rook's blood, pressing down hard on the wound, her face a mask of intense, absolute concentration. "Forceps," Doc commands, and herhand is there, slapping the instrument into his palm. "Gauze." She's already tearing open the packet.
The sight of her, so calm and competent in this bloody chaos, is the most disorienting thing I have ever witnessed. She is not a liability. She is an asset. And she is handling the most important task in this room.
With the immediate crisis of Rook's bleeding managed by this impossible woman, my mind snaps back to the larger one. The war. The clubhouse.
I turn to Zero, who is standing guard by the door, his rifle at the ready. He is my Sergeant at Arms, my enforcer, my most ruthlessly efficient soldier. He's a combat vet; he knows what comes next.
"The clubhouse is a fallen fortress," I say, my voice a low, hard command. "They'll be trying to loot our armory and burn the rest. You are to take every man who can still stand, return to the den, and hold it. Secure the perimeter, account for our dead, and kill anything that isn't wearing our patch. Turn our home into an impenetrable bastion."
Zero's dead eyes meet mine. "And you, Prez?"
My gaze flicks back to the operating table, to Vera's small hands pressing down on Rook's chest, to my brother's shallow breathing.
"My place is here," I say, the words a final, absolute decree. "Now go. Hold the line."
Zero gives a single, sharp nod. He doesn't need another word. He is my iron fist, and I have just pointed him at the enemy. He turns and disappears into the chaos of the night, leaving me to stand watch in this sterile room, a king with a fallen kingdom, trusting its defense to his sword and his brother's life to a ghost.
"Forceps," Doc commands, and her hand is there, slapping the instrument into his palm without him even needing to look. "Gauze." She's already tearing open the packet.
She doesn't recoil from the gore. She doesn't gag at the smell of blood. She moves with a clean, efficient purpose, a makeshift nurse who seems to anticipate Doc's every need. The sight of her, so calm and competent in the heart of this bloody, desperate chaos, is the most disorienting thing I have ever witnessed.
I stand there, a useless king in my own fallen kingdom, and watch as the woman I took as a prisoner calmly and methodically helps to save my brother's life.
The silencein the safe house is a different kind from the silence of my office. It's a temporary, fragile thing, thick with the smell of antiseptic and the shallow breathing of my wounded brother. I stand watch outside the medical bay, a king without a kingdom, my entire world reduced to the four walls of this anonymous warehouse.
My every instinct screams at me to be back at the clubhouse, assessing the damage, rallying my men, and putting the fear of God back into my enemies. But a king has duties, and a commander has protocols. The clubhouse is a fortress, but it is just brick and steel. The men are the true heart of the club, and the chain of command is its spine.
That is why I am here, and why Zero is not.
My Sergeant at Arms, my enforcer, the most ruthlessly efficient soldier I have ever known. No long speech was needed. He's a combat vet; he knew the mission. I gave him two words: "Hold it."
Zero's job now is to do what he was made for. He will secure the clubhouse, account for our dead, and turn our fallen home into a hardened, impenetrable bastion. He will be my iron fist, holding the line until I can return. He doesn't need my supervision; he just needs the command.
My place is here. With Rook. The club can lose a building. It cannot lose its Vice President. My staying here is not an act of emotion; it is a declaration to my men that our loyalty to each other is more important than any piece of territory. It is a strategic decision. A king must protect his line of succession.
But as I stare at the sterile white door of the medical bay, I know it's also a lie. I'm not just here for Rook. I'm here because she's here. And I can no longer trust myself to think clearly about one without the other.
