Chapter Thirty-Three
Breaker
The world explodes.
It’s the same every time. Light, then total blackness.
Heat, then the collapse of all sensation.
Screaming metal, followed by a silence so perfect it could only exist in the second after death.
For a heartbeat, I’m neither here nor there, just floating in a pit — a hollow, pressurized pit — and then I hit the ground.
Dust pelts my skin. Smoke shreds my lungs.
The air vibrates with a chemical tang: cordite, diesel, and burning meat.
I open my mouth to shout, but I taste blood and spit out nothing but crimson.
Suddenly, I’m back in the desert, with sand raining down, the smell of smoke in the air, blood on my hands, and Viper shouting my name.
I look around for the source of the sound, and don’t see my brother, just someone else not shouting anything at all because they don’t have a mouth anymore, only a gaping, mangled hole in their face where their mouth used to be.
I drag myself to my knees, hunching low because I know the kill zone isn’t done with us.
Out past the haze, I can see the rest of my team trying to regroup.
One of them is crawling, trailing a length of intestine like a sacrificial streamer.
Another is just sitting there, cradling his hands — or what’s left of them.
The ground is littered with shrapnel, spent ammo, and limbs that don’t seem to belong to anybody.
My fault.
A trap I should’ve seen. Disarmed. It doesn’t matter that it was set by someone that the CIA and the military have had near the top of their ‘Most Wanted’ list for years; I should’ve seen it.
Gunfire erupts.
That’s when I finally wake up.
My whole body convulses off the mattress, like my soul just got defibrillated.
I claw at the sheets, gripping them so hard the fabric bites into my palms. Sweat slicks every crease of my skin.
I choke, gasp, and realize I’m making a sound — a kind of animal whine I haven’t heard come out of my mouth since the first time the dreams hit.
For a second, I’m still nowhere. The room is too dark, too silent, the air too still for a world where people are allowed to survive.
The afterimages linger: blood on my hands, the sharp salt of terror in my nose, the bodies and limbs around me.
My eyes scan the room, waiting for it to rearrange itself into something familiar.
And then I see her.
Riley. My Sparrow. She’s curled up beside me, one arm tucked under her cheek, her mouth slightly open, a hairline of drool tracing the edge of her lower lip.
Her hair is a riot of tangles, spilling across the pillow and onto my bare chest. She’s alive.
She’s whole. No holes in her face, no shrapnel embedded in her body.
Just the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.
My heart aches with something fierce and protective.
My pulse quiets, but the nightmare doesn’t fully fade.
It never does. That gnawing sensation settles under my ribs — the warning that used to hit seconds before something went wrong on deployment.
A sixth sense. A whisper that says: Not safe.
Not safe. Something’s coming. Now that whisper has a name with it: Randall Pike.
The man who wants to murder the woman I love, the woman I swore to protect, the woman who makes my broken soul feel something close to whole.
I look at her beside me, and despite the storm raging in my chest, I can’t help but smile.
Smile, and wonder if stopping Pike and saving her will finally be the thing that puts the demons in my past to rest. The thing that lets me sleep at night without seeing them — all the people in my past who died because of me.
Moving carefully so as not to wake Riley, I grab my phone from the nightstand.
It’s morning. Parade day.
Fuck, how did I sleep so long? Shit.
I rub a hand over my face, trying to shake off the dread crawling up my spine. It’s nothing. Just memories. Old ghosts clawing at the edges and reaching for the woman I love.
I lean in and press a kiss to Riley’s shoulder.
She wakes in stages. First her hand, searching for me, then her eyes, which flicker open, half-lidded and dreamy. She smiles before she’s even fully conscious, as if the part of her that exists below sleep is always happy to see me.
“Hey…” she says. Her voice is nothing but air and warmth.
“We’ve gotta get ready, Sparrow,” I say, and bury my mouth in the notch of her shoulder. She tastes of sleep and salt. I want to stay right here. “Parade starts soon.”
She stretches, arms over her head, the sheet slipping to reveal the constellation of freckles on her left breast. I count them. I’ll always count them.
“Right. The parade. The anniversary. And finding out who is going to be Ms. Ironwood Falls.” She grins and gives me the look. “Are you excited to see the float you helped build?”
I grumble, but she laughs — that bright, sweet sound that kills half the shadows in my head.
We get dressed. I wear my usual — jeans, a shirt, my cut; Riley emerges in a sundress that should be illegal.
The color’s a blue that would make a cop’s siren blush.
Her hair’s wet, slicked back, and she’s already got streaks of mascara under her eyes from laughing too hard.
I feel my face do something it never did before her: pull into a stupid, uncontrollable smile so wide it hurts my cheeks.
She sees it and winks. “Threat assessment, Breaker?”
I nod gravely. “High risk of catastrophic distraction.”
“Then we better get out of here before that risk becomes a reality,” she says, doing a quick twirl as she heads to the door.
When we step into the main room of the clubhouse, half the members are already gathering.
Diesel hands out coffee. Mayhem’s ol’ lady, Stacy, is handing out breakfast cupcakes topped with bacon.
Mayhem is wearing a sash he definitely wasn’t awarded – it looks handmade and has “Best Homemade Explosives” on it, with the letters looking like they were crafted with some of the glitter that probably fell off me yesterday.
He notices me looking at his sash and winks at me.
Havoc, eating a cupcake and looking like he hasn’t slept, is busy raiding the table where Molly keeps the snacks she’s planning to give to the Girl Scouts and other parade volunteers.
Molly is yelling at him, bat in one hand, empty Tupperware in the other.
She clocks me and Riley in the doorway and smirks as if to say, ‘Welcome to the circus.’
It really feels like family. A fucked-up, barely-holding-it-together family, but family all the same.
A family, and a future I never thought I could have.
Rabid calls us together. He’s got a stack of parade pamphlets in one hand, and hands one out to each of us.
“Remember: we’re representing the MC, not a riot squad.
We’re here for security, too, so keep your eyes out.
And there are to be no fights, no stunts, and no property damage.
That means you, Mayhem. And Havoc, if you do not stop stealing food, I will staple your lips together. ”
Havoc grins, mouth full, and gives a thumbs-up. Mayhem rolls his eyes.
Riley leans into me, voice barely above a whisper. “Is it always like this?”
“Always.”
We all ride into town together — a convoy of leather, denim, and noise.
We park close to the parade route, and Rabid gives us all a reminder to keep our eyes open for anyone suspicious or raising trouble, and also to behave ourselves as representatives of the MC — this he says while looking pointedly at Mayhem and Havoc, who both nonchalantly shrug.
The air smells like kettle corn and barbecue, while kids sit on their parents’ shoulders, people wave flags, and the floats line up, glittering in the sunlight.
Riley holds my hand through all of it, smiling, laughing, pointing at the stalls she wants to visit.
For a while, I forget the nightmare. I forget the dread. I just exist in this moment — with her. Happy. Content. I’m just a man who believes he deserves this, who can see and feel a future free from all the skeletons in his past, with a woman by his side and brotherhood around him.
It’s a life I never thought I’d have, but one I’ll fight like hell to keep.
Then my phone rings.
The sound slices through the music, the cheers, the laughter of children, the humming crowd waiting for the parade to start.
“Breaker?” Riley asks softly, reading my face. “What is it?”
Viper’s number flashes on the screen, and a cold pulse hits the base of my spine.