Chapter 5: The Toll of the Past
The two men in suits didn't look like local law enforcement; they moved with the synchronized, predatory grace of federal operatives who had spent too many years clearing rooms in foreign dust bowls. They paused by the convenience store door, exchanging words with the terrified clerk behind the bulletproof glass, before turning their collective gaze directly toward the dark gap between the semi-trucks.
"Get her in the cab," Jack muttered, his eyes never leaving the two figures as they began to cross the gravel lot. "Scratch, take the shovelhead and head down service road twelve. Draw them away if you have to, but don't let them box us in."
"I ain't running, Jack," Scratch growled, his knuckles cracking as he rolled his massive shoulders. "Not from suit-wearing cowards who don't even have the decency to wear colors."
"This isn't a club rumble, Scratch. This is an execution," Jack said sharply. "You die here, and nobody gets the girl—or the ledger—to the federal prosecutor in Denver. Do your job."
Scratch cursed, spat on the asphalt, and turned toward the row of bikes. With a deafening roar, his shovelhead roared to life, kicking up a rooster tail of gravel as he launched out of the parking lot and onto the highway, heading south at breakneck speed.
One of the suits pointed toward the roaring motorcycle, but the other gestured urgently toward the dark recess behind the trailers where Jack, Cale, and Maya were hidden. They began to jog, their hands dipping beneath their suit jackets.
"Dad, I'm scared," Maya whimpered, tugging on the hem of Jack’s vest.
Cale tried to push himself up, but his body betrayed him, sending him crashing back down onto the metal tailgate with a suppressed groan. "Jack... take her. Leave me. I'm dead weight."
"Shut up, Cale. We ride together, or we don't ride at all," Jack said, his voice hard as iron. He scooped Maya up in one arm, easily lifting her into the passenger seat of the Ford, and slammed the door shut.
May you like
He leaned into the driver's side window, grabbing the steering wheel with one hand while turning the ignition key with the other. The old engine coughed, sputtered, and finally caught, roaring with a rich, unburnt fuel smell that masked the scent of blood.
As the two federal agents rounded the corner of the refrigerated trailer, Jack stomped on the gas pedal. The Ford lurched backward, spraying gravel directly into their faces, before Jack threw it into drive and rocketed out into the night.
