Chapter 2: Shadows on the Blacktop
The flickering neon sign of the oasis buzzed, casting a sickly green hue over the dirt clinging to Maya’s knees. Jack didn't ask who they were. On the desolate stretches of Interstate 40, trouble wore many faces—debt collectors, crooked patch-holders, or local thugs preying on the broken down and desperate. But a kid carrying a patched cut belonging to a ghost from Oklahoma meant this wasn't random highway violence. It meant unfinished business had finally caught up to the present.
From the picnic table, Scratch—a massive enforcer with a scarred scalp and a broken nose—stood up, his heavy silver rings clinking together as he crossed his arms. "We don't need stray dogs in camp, Jack. You know the bylaws. A vest like that is bad luck at best, a beacon at worst."
"Shut up, Scratch," Jack said without turning around. He crouched down to Maya's eye level, ignoring the grease staining his own heavy denim. "Maya. Listen to me very carefully. Where is your father?"
"Behind the diner," she whispered, her gaze darting frantically toward the dark stretch of highway behind the service station. "In the truck. He told me to find a man with an iron cross tattoo on his thumb. He said... he said you owed him a debt from the salt flats."
Jack felt the breath catch in his throat. The salt flats. That was fifteen years ago, back when the Legion was bleeding out its soul in the Utah desert during the Great Basin war. The man she was talking about wasn't just a ghost; he was the ghost who had taken a bullet meant for Jack's own chest.
"Show me," Jack commanded softly.
He stood, gesturing for Scratch and the others to stay back. The pack leader’s word was law, but curiosity and a sudden, cold dread were infectious. Maya turned on her heel, her worn boots clacking against the concrete as she led him away from the neon lights and into the deep shadows behind the semi-trucks, where the smell of stale diesel gave way to the sharp, metallic tang of copper.
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Parked between a rusted refrigerated trailer and a brick retaining wall sat a faded blue Ford pickup truck with California plates. The driver's side door was ajar, spilling a sickly sliver of interior light onto the ground. Maya stopped a few paces away, wrapping her arms around her stomach as if bracing for a blow.
Jack stepped forward, his boots crunching on broken glass, and reached for the rusted handle of the truck door.
