THE GHOST FROM THE HIGHWAY LEFT A FADED POLAROID IN MY POCKET AND NOW HE WANTS HIS PAST BACK

The rusted iron latch of the floor trapdoor rattled violently as someone from the dark recesses below slammed their weight against the underside of the wood. Miller instinctively reached for his service revolver, drawing the steel weapon with a sharp click, while Jax stepped back, planting his boots firmly on the dusty floorboards and raising his hunting knife.

"Get back!" Jax barked over his shoulder toward the open doorway, knowing Martha and Toby were still waiting outside in the dark.

Before Miller could aim his revolver toward the rising trapdoor, a heavy black-gloved hand shot up through the gap, grabbing the sheriff by the wrist with terrifying strength. Miller let out a sharp cry of surprise as he was yanked forward, his pistol clattering uselessly across the splintered wood floor.

Jax didn't hesitate. With a fierce roar, he lunged across the room, driving the pommel of his hunting knife down onto the intruder's hand. A muffled shriek of pain echoed from the dark cellar below, and the hand instantly released its grip on the sheriff.

Miller scrambled backward, clutching his bruised wrist, his face pale with shock. "They found the secondary access tunnel from the rail spur! There's an entire squad down there!"

The trapdoor flew completely open, crashing backward against the desk with a deafening bang. Rising slowly from the dark, damp pit was a towering figure clad in the same tactical gear and black balaclava as the operatives from the interstate. But this man wore no helmet, and his face was marred by a jagged, horrific burn scar that ran from his jawline up to his left ear—a face Jax recognized instantly from the nightmare of Phoenix twelve years ago.

"Well, well, well," the scarred man rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stones. "If it isn't the ghost of the highway. I told you back then, biker, you can't outrun the syndicate."

Jax’s blood turned to ice. The man standing before him wasn't just a hired gun; he was the executioner who had set the nursery fire that supposedly killed Sarah and destroyed his life.

"You," Jax whispered, the word dripping with a lethal, concentrated hatred that seemed to lower the temperature in the room by ten degrees.

"Me," the scarred operative smiled grimly, reaching slowly behind his back to draw a heavy combat knife of his own. "And your precious wife sends her regards—right before we lock her and the boy away in the vault forever."

Before the operative could lunge, a sudden small shadow flashed past Jax's legs, and a tiny voice rang out from the doorway.