Page 14 of Coming In Hot
But I feel compelled to turn, and standing in the shadows is Pharo. My Master Sergeant. My friend. Pharo’s face twists into a strange, unsettling grin, one that I haven’t seen before. It’s no longer a look of friendship, but one of something darker—something menacing.
I can’t trust him.“Pharo?” My voice sounds shaky.
Pharo steps forward, but instead of the reassuring presence I once felt, he’s different now. His eyes are cold, calculating, and as he approaches, I see blood staining his uniform, dripping from his calloused hands.
“What the hell is this?” I stammer, my heart racing as I gaze at my old friend.
The nightmare shifts. Suddenly, Pharo’s body turns black, like a dark ethereal shadow. A harbinger of death. The man I trusted with my life is now the embodiment of everything that went wrong—the one responsible for Jordan’s death. The one who turned his back on his team and left them to die.
“You should have known, Jax,” Pharo sneers, his voice low, filled with contempt. “You think I cared abouthim? Jordan was expendable. Always was. If anyone is to blame for his death, it’s you.”
My chest tightens, the air becoming so thick and hot it’s collapsing my lungs. The suffocating heat from the sand, the weight of the guilt, the images of Jordan's lifeless, mangled body... it all comes crashing back. When I turn back, I know what I’ll see. Pieces of my best friend were scattered around the sand, picked apart by the ravens.
I try to scream, to reach out to Jordan, but my legs won’t move. My body is paralyzed, trapped in the nightmare’s grip.
“Jordan… no…” I whisper, but my voice is barely a breath, drowned out by the screech of the ravens and the thunder of Pharo’s laughter.
The landscape shifts again, and now Jordan’s face contorts in pain, his eyes pleading with me. But it’s too late. The nightmare is spinning out of control, and I’m caught in the middle of it, drowning in the suffocating grief of loss and betrayal.
I bolt forward with a sharp gasp. My body jerks, my heart pounding in my tight chest, sweat dripping down my face. Blinking rapidly, I’m disoriented and dizzy, my mind struggling to separate the dream from reality. My neck feels stiff from falling asleep in my chair, slumped over the desk. My hands still rest on the keyboard, the glow of the screen illuminating the room in sickly light. The nightmare lingers, the remnants of it gnawing at the edges of my mind, but reality slowly creeps in.
Swallowing hard, I try to shake off the panic that grips my chest. The air in the room feels too thick, too heavy. I stumble from my chair, my legs shaking like jelly as I make my way to the kitchen. I fumble the glass I reach for but recover it before it crashes to the floor, and fill it with water, drinking greedily, the cool liquid doing little to calm the storm inside me.
I can’t keep running from this. From the past. From the guilt. From the grief.
Reaching for my vape, my eyes land on the phone beside it, and after a long hit to steady my racing heart, I pick it up. The screen flickers as I scroll through my contacts. I pause when I get to Brewer’s name. The one person who might be able to help, who might be able to pull me out of my living nightmare.
I pause, gazing at his name, feeling the gravity of my choice. Then, with a deep breath, I press call.
It's time.
CHAPTER6
PHARO
The engine rumblessoftly as it idles beneath me, its painted-black fuel tank gleaming under the fading light of the setting sun. I turn the key in the ignition, and she backfires with a sharp cough before sputtering to a stop. The loud crack reminds me of gunfire and conflict. I was lost in my head, dreaming of a future where the only danger is a miscalibrated carburetor—until the sound brought me back to the present. For a moment, I feel the familiar tension creep back in, like a cold breath on the back of my neck, but I shake it off. Not today. Not here. This lot, this rusted chain-link fence, they don’t know the life I’ve led. All they know is I’m here, and someday, I’ll be back for good.
My gaze moves across the empty lot, surrounded by the wild growth of weeds that have taken over the cracked asphalt. The air is turning more humid now that spring has sprung. A greenish-yellow haze of pollen dust swirls lazily in the wind, coating everything in toxic-sludge-colored spores.
My eyes are fixed on the treeline behind the fence, but my thoughts are miles away, far from this desolate lot outside the city limits. In my head, I don’t see weeds and broken concrete. I see the walls of my dream—walls of brick, glass, and tools—where motorcycles gleam in the soft glow of the overhead lights, each one a carefully restored masterpiece.
A motorcycle shop.Mymotorcycle shop.
Kendrix Motors.
Kendrix Restorations.
… Something like that.
The image of the shop is vivid in my mind now. The salvaged-brick walls lined with old bikes in various states of repair, some stripped to their frames, others already gleaming with fresh paint. A steady stream of customers who appreciate the artistry of restoring old machines. I’ll spend my days in the workshop, hands deep in grease, listening to the whir of the air compressor, my focus entirely on bringing the past back to life.
I think about it every day, every minute of the endless hours spent in the cockpit of the helicopter, running missions over foreign lands where danger is always just a heartbeat away. The dream is out there, waiting for me. All I need is to survive long enough to reach it.
For now, it’s the paycheck that keeps me going. The risk, the adrenaline, the endless nights of isolation—they’re all paying for this future. The dream that sits quietly in the back of my mind like a seed, slowly taking root, fed by each drop of blood, sweat, and fear I’ve poured into this life I’ve chosen.
It’s not a glamorous life, but it’s a life that will buy me the freedom to build something beautiful, something that’s truly mine. Owning a garage isn’t that big of a dream, but it’s big enough for me. I’m living a larger-than-life existence now, and when I finally walk away from that, I want small. I want comfortable. I wantthis.
Maybe I’ll hire Stiles to give me a hand. That man can fix anything.
