Chapter 11 - The Abandoned Barn
The wail of the police siren grew louder, echoing off the distant canyon walls before fading into a low, mournful hum as the cruiser turned down the lower highway. Jax ducked lower into the tall weeds bordering the gravel drive, pulling Toby and Martha down with him. The old service barn loomed ahead like a massive, skeletal beast against the grey sky, its corrugated tin roof rusting and peeling in the damp wind.
"That's it," Martha whispered, pointing a trembling finger toward the sliding wooden side door of the barn. A rusted padlock hung loosely from a broken latch, swaying gently in the breeze. "Nobody's been in there in months. My brother-in-law moved out to Nevada last spring after the bank foreclosed."
Jax scanned the perimeter with a critical eye, his instincts honed by years of living on the fringe of the law. There were no fresh tire tracks in the mud, no lights cutting through the grimy windows, and no sign of the tactical syndicate operatives—at least, not yet.
"Stay here in the brush," Jax instructed quietly, his hand resting on the hilt of his hunting knife. "I'll clear the inside."
He crept forward across the open gravel lot, moving with a silent, feline grace that belied his massive frame and bruised ribs. Reaching the sliding door, he hooked his fingers around the rusted handle and yanked it sideways. With a loud, protesting screech of dry rollers, the heavy wooden panel slid open just enough for him to slip inside into the pitch-black interior.
The air inside the barn smelled thick of dry hay, old motor oil, and rotting timber. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Jax made out the bulky silhouette of an old Ford flatbed truck parked in the center of the dirt floor. He circled the vehicle cautiously, checking the cab, and breathed a small sigh of relief when he spotted the keys dangling right from the ignition switch.
Walking back to the entrance, Jax signaled to Martha and Toby, motioning for them to hurry across the open space before anyone from the highway patrol could double back toward their location.
"Get in the passenger side," Jax told Martha as she scrambled up into the cab, pulling the shivering boy up after her.
Jax slid behind the steering wheel, turning the key. The starter motor cranked with a loud, protesting groan, coughing twice before the old engine finally caught with a deep, rumbling roar that rattled the loose floorboards.
"Hold on," Jax muttered, throwing the truck into reverse and spinning the wheel hard. The flatbed backed out of the barn with a crunch of gravel just as a pair of blinding high-beam headlights swept across the access road fifty yards away.
A black cruiser bearing the emblem of the county sheriff's department rolled slowly past the end of the drive, its searchlight sweeping back and forth across the overgrown fields.
"They're looking for us," Martha gasped, pressing herself flat against the dashboard to avoid being seen through the dusty windshield.
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Jax didn't flinch. He shifted into first gear, keeping the headlights off as he navigated the truck down an old logging trail that ran parallel to the interstate. But as they rounded a sharp bend in the tree line, the truck's engine sputtered violently and died, plunging them into sudden, suffocating darkness.
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