Chapter 8
The sound of heavy boots slapping against the damp concrete echoed off the narrow brick walls with terrifying clarity. Jax shoved Leo upward, his powerful hands boosting the eight-year-old boy toward the lowest rung of the rusted metal fire escape hanging ten feet above the ground. Leo’s scuffed sneakers scrambled frantically against the cold iron, his small fingers hooking desperately around the rungs as he hauled his trembling body upward.
“Go, Leo! Don't look back!” Jax barked in a fierce, urgent whisper, keeping his own body pressed flat against the brick wall, acting as a human shield.
From the mouth of the alleyway, the heavy-set accomplice in the canvas jacket emerged, brandishing the iron tire iron like a club. A cruel grin stretched across his weathered face as he spotted the biker standing unprotected in the open. “End of the line, old man. Boss wants a word with you, and trust me, you ain't going to like his terms.”
Jax didn't flinch. He slowly stepped out from the shadow of the dumpster, his broad shoulders squared and his hands balling into tight, calloused fists. Every instinct he had developed over decades of street brawls and highway confrontations flared to life. He glanced upward out of the corner of his eye just long enough to see Leo squeeze through the second-floor window of Mrs. Higgins’ sewing shop, the warped glass snapping shut behind the boy.
Relief washed over Jax’s chest like a cool wave, instantly replaced by a surge of cold, calculated aggression. He finally had what he needed: Leo was out of the line of fire.
“You’re wasting your time, pal,” Jax said, spitting a mouthful of bitter saliva onto the pavement as he slowly circled to his left, drawing the attacker further away from the fire escape ladder. “Victor’s chasing a ghost. That ledger doesn't exist anymore.”
The heavy-set man laughed, a harsh, grating sound that bounced off the alley walls. “Oh, it exists alright. And even if you burned the paper, the digital drives are still out there. Victor always gets what he wants. And today, he gets you.”
Without warning, the man lunged forward, bringing the iron tire iron down in a vicious, overhead arc aimed straight at Jax’s skull. The biker ducked low at the exact last millisecond, the heavy iron whistling through the air just inches above his hair, slamming into the brick wall with a shower of sparks.
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Jax countered instantly, driving a brutal, knuckles-first punch straight into the man's midsection. The impact knocked the wind out of the attacker with a loud, violent gasp. But before Jax could follow up with a second strike, a second set of footsteps thundered into the alley from behind him.
It was Victor. And in his right hand, he was holding a sleek, suppressed pistol that pointed directly at the center of Jax’s chest.
