Chapter 9
The metallic click of the pistol slide locking into place cut through the damp alley air with absolute, chilling finality. Jax froze mid-strike, his fist still hovering inches from the gasping, doubled-over accomplice. The world seemed to grind to a agonizingly slow halt. Every breath felt heavy, tasting of ozone, wet brick, and impending doom.
Victor stepped slowly out of the shadows, his tailored charcoal overcoat immaculate despite the morning chaos. His face was entirely devoid of emotion, his cold eyes fixed on Jax with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a specimen under a microscope. He lowered the suppressed firearm just a fraction, keeping it locked dead-center on the biker’s heart.
“You really are a stubborn bastard, Jax,” Victor said smoothly, his voice echoing quietly off the brick walls. “All these years on the run, living out of motels and greasy spoons, dragging some deadbeat's kid through the dirt. And for what? A hollow sense of honor that died the night you crossed the syndicate?”
Jax slowly straightened up, rolling his shoulders back with deliberate calmness. He kept his hands open at his sides, refusing to give Victor the satisfaction of seeing him tremble. “I didn't cross the syndicate, Victor. The syndicate crossed every moral line it ever had. You turned a smuggling ring into a human meat grinder, and I wasn't going to let you drag Leo's family down with us.”
The heavy-set accomplice recovered his breath, wiping a line of drool from his chin before lunging forward to shove Jax hard against the brick wall. Jax didn't resist, letting the impact rattle his teeth just to keep his hands positioned near his hidden boot sheath.
“Shut your trap, old man,” the accomplice snarled, raising the iron tire iron as if to finish the job right there.
“Hold,” Victor commanded sharply, raising his left hand to stop his enforcer. He took another measured step forward until he was standing barely three feet away from Jax. He reached out with his free hand, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the lapel of Jax’s worn leather vest, right over the spot where the biker kept his hidden possessions. “Where is the boy, Jax? I saw him climbing that fire escape. You think Mrs. Higgins is going to risk her neck to hide a runaway criminal and a stray kid? She's seventy-four years old and arthritic. We'll have her front door kicked in before you finish your next breath.”
Jax’s jaw tightened so hard muscles flared along his jawline. He knew Victor wasn't bluffing. Mrs. Higgins was a good woman, but she couldn't stand up to armed professionals. The only way to save Leo was to redirect the hunt entirely onto himself.
“He went the other way,” Jax lied smoothly, locking eyes with Victor without blinking. “He ran toward the old rail yard while I stayed behind to draw you off. You want the ledger? You want me? Then let the boy go. He doesn't even know what we're talking about.”
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Victor stared deep into Jax’s eyes for a long, agonizing moment, searching for a micro-expression of deceit. A slow, cruel smile crept across the syndicate boss’s face. “Oh, I believe you sent him running, Jax. But we're going to check Mrs. Higgins' shop anyway. Just to be thorough.”
Victor raised the pistol right back to eye level, pressing the cold steel barrel directly against the center of Jax’s forehead.
