Chapter 5 - The Bleeding Memory
Martha’s hands shook visibly as she pulled a ceramic mug from the shelf and filled it with steaming water, setting it down with a heavy clatter that broke the suffocating silence. She leaned over the Formica counter, her tired eyes darting between the towering biker and the small boy who stood like a silent sentinel beside him. The adrenaline was slowly draining out of the room, leaving behind a cold, biting reality that felt heavier than the winter frost waiting outside.
“You’ve got twenty minutes before the rest of that pack figures out Brick didn’t come back with his prize,” Martha said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. She grabbed a clean rag and wiped furiously at an already spotless spot on the counter. “They aren’t going to let this go, Jax. Not after what you just did to their golden boy. That clubhouse down by the quarry holds grudges longer than elephants.”
Jax didn’t answer right away. He slowly lowered himself back onto the chrome stool, his massive frame trembling ever so slightly as the residual tension left his muscles. He stared down at the dark rings left by his untouched coffee, watching the coffee settle like muddy water. His long dark hair, greasy and tied back with a frayed leather cord, fell forward to shadow his scarred face.
“They don’t care about the grudges, Martha,” Jax rasped, his voice thick with gravel and exhaustion. “They care about what’s inside that boy’s jacket. They think Clara hid something when we split the take from the Oakhaven bank job fourteen years ago. They think there’s a paper trail leading straight to a locker full of stolen bearer bonds.”
The boy shifted his weight, his scuffed sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. He reached inside his oversized, threadbare jacket and pulled out a small, metallic tin box that clinked softly against the counter. It was battered, scratched, and held together by strands of rusted wire, looking like it had spent a decade buried beneath the damp earth.
“She didn’t keep any bonds,” the boy said softly, his big hazel eyes locking onto Jax’s bruised knuckles. “She only kept the music box and the letters you wrote her before the raid. She said the rest of it was poison, and that you were the only one smart enough to throw it in the river.”
Jax stared at the tin box, his breath catching in his throat. A jagged memory tore through his mind—a rainy Tuesday night in a cheap motel room, handing Clara a small silver key and telling her to run as far south as the map would take her. He had traded his freedom for her safety, assuming she had vanished into the wind just like he had.
“You shouldn’t have brought this here, Leo,” Jax whispered, the boy’s name slipping out of his lips like a forbidden incantation. “It puts a target on your back bigger than the one on mine.”
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Before Leo could reply, the harsh glare of motorcycle headlights swept across the diner’s front windows, followed by the terrifying rumble of half a dozen heavy engines pulling up right outside the door.
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