Chapter 12
Big Mike’s massive frame froze for a fraction of a second, his calloused hands dropping the greasy rag straight into a metal parts bin. The grease-stained mechanic stared down at the faded leather strap in Leo’s trembling hand, his heavy brow furrowing as a wave of dark recognition crossed his weathered face. The emblem of the soaring hawk clutching a wrench wasn't just a trinket; it was a blood oath from a past life that Big Mike had thought buried deep in the Illinois mud.
“Where did you get this, kid?” Big Mike demanded, his voice a deep, resonant bass that rattled the wrenches hanging on the pegboard behind him.
“Jax… the man with the scars on his face… he gave it to me,” Leo sobbed, pointing frantically back down the asphalt road toward the highway exit ramp. “Bad men with guns have him! They took him behind the laundromat!”
Before Big Mike could press for details, the harsh, high-pitched squeal of locking brakes cut through the hum of highway traffic. A sleek black sedan swung hard into the truck stop’s gravel lot, throwing up a massive cloud of gray dust that choked the morning air. The front door of the car flew open before it had even come to a complete stop, and Victor stepped out, his charcoal overcoat fluttering in the backdraft. His cold, calculating eyes immediately locked onto the small boy standing beside the massive mechanic.
“Well, well,” Victor muttered, a dark, venomous smile spreading across his lips as he casually slipped his right hand back inside his coat pocket, feeling the reassuring bulk of the suppressed pistol. “Looks like the rat ran straight into a corner after all.”
Big Mike didn't flinch. Slowly, deliberately, the six-foot-four mechanic stepped in front of Leo, placing his massive body between the child and the approaching syndicate boss. Mike wiped his greasy hands on his jumpsuit one last time before reaching behind him to grab a heavy, three-foot-long breaker bar resting against the workbench.
“You’re trespassing on private property, pal,” Big Mike warned, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register that carried an immense amount of physical threat. “Turn around and get back on the highway before I wrap this bar around your radiator.”
Victor didn't break his stride. He stopped ten feet away, his expression entirely unimpressed by the mechanic's intimidating size. He gestured with his chin toward the black sedan, where the passenger door clicked open and the heavy-set enforcer stepped out, clutching a bruised shin and glaring daggers at Leo.
“Big Mike, isn't it?” Victor said smoothly, his tone dripping with condescension. “I remember your file from the Chicago docks. You lost your garage license back in '18. I imagine the state inspectors would love to know you’re running unregistered chop-shop operations out here in the sticks. Now, hand over the boy and the strap, and no one else has to get broken today.”
Leo clutched the hem of Big Mike’s jumpsuit, his small voice shaking with pure terror. “Don't let them take me, Mike. They have Jax.”
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Big Mike’s jaw tightened, a dangerous glint appearing in his dark eyes. He gripped the heavy breaker bar tighter, the metal groaning softly under his immense grip. “Jax is my brother,” Mike growled softly. “And nobody takes anyone from my yard.”
Victor sighed softly, as if dealing with a mildly annoying child, and slowly began to pull his pistol from his coat pocket. But before the barrel could clear the fabric, a deafening roar of a modified motorcycle engine exploded from down the highway, drowning out the truck stop’s ambient noise entirely.
