“Reaper, will you grant my brothers sanctuary?”
“Consider it done,” the man stated, reaching for his phone.
Nodding, I looked at Mercy and asked, “Where is Happy now?”
When my VP stayed silent, then looked at Reaper, I took a step forward and sneered, “What else happened?”
Mercy gulped. “Our Southern California Chapter attacked Disturbed.”
Stumbling back, I shook my head as my back hit the wall hard.
“My daughter?” Reaper growled, rounding on my VP.
“Safe,” Mercy stated firmly. “Disturbed was ready for them and they killed the whole chapter, Montana. They’re gone.”
“FUCK!” I roared, turning fast to punch a hole in the new drywall.
“Listen, fucknuts,” Reaper barked. “It’s about as bad as it can get. You knew when the table issued the order, all hell would break loose. Well, it has. The clubs are pitting themselves against each other. The only way to fix this fucking mess is to prove that Sypher is still alive.”
“It’s going to be a bloodbath.”
“I know.” Reaper nodded. “I know your first instinct is to leave, but brother, you can’t. You need to trust that Luc and his club will protect Emma, because they can. Those fuckers are highly trained former special forces. Their first concern will be her safety. Trust them to do their jobs.”
Shaking my head, I seethed, “She’s your daughter. Do you trust them that much?”
“Yes. Don’t forget that Luc is also Sandman’s father and Ivy is Malice’s sister. Trust me. Disturbed knows the score.”
“She’s my granddaughter, Max.”
“I know, brother,” he firmly said. “But you are no good to her there. As long as the threat exists, she will always be in danger. What you need to do is let everything you are feeling right now take hold. Breathe it in, let it soak into your veins and let it take root in your soul, for it will be the only thing that gets you through what you need to do next.”
“Tell me you have a plan?” I growled, looking at the man.
“I do, but I need to know that you can do what comes next. If not, say the word and I will go it alone.”
Pushing off the wall, I squared my shoulders and hardened my stance as I vowed, “This ends now.”
“Then let’s go shed some blood.”
“There is something else,” Mercy reluctantly admitted. “I don’t know what to make of it, but you need to see this.
Turning his phone around so we could see it read.
Sypher:Warned Disturbed. You’re welcome.
“WHAT THE FUCK?!”
Valhalla
St. John’s Presbyterian Hospital, New York.
The current Electroencephalogram (EEG) results for Sypher were not promising. The necessity for a contrast MRI was evident, as the swelling had decreased, but the EEG presented concerning data. Despite my proficiency and reputation as one of the foremost neurosurgeons, I acknowledged my limitations. I was adept at my profession, but I was not omnipotent.
In my interactions with the relatives of my patients, I favored straightforwardness. Clear communication minimized misunderstandings and fostered realistic expectations. Sypher had sustained a significant brain injury and there was a limit to what medical intervention could achieve. The trajectory of his recovery and the quality of his future life were uncertain and hinged on time and his body’s response to treatment.
Ordinary families typically grasped this reality, yet the Golden Skulls Motorcycle Club and Sypher’s family harbored different expectations. They demanded a miraculous recovery, an outcome that defied medical probabilities. This pressure from his family added a layer of complexity to an already challenging situation.
Sypher’s family was unlikely to be content with the current prognosis and if I failed to devise a solution, their discontent would be directed towards me. The burden of their expectations weighed heavily and the necessity for a miracle seemed more a demand than a hope.
