Chapter 8 - Blood in the Mud
The click of the rifle safety echoed like a gunshot over the roar of the interstate traffic. Jax didn't hesitate. With the explosive speed of a cornered predator, he hurled the heavy hunting knife directly at the chest of the second operative while dropping flat into the clinging red mud.
The blade struck the center of the tactical vest with a heavy thud, knocking the guard backward off balance. Before the lead operative could compensate and pull the trigger, Jax scrambled forward on his hands and knees, driving his shoulder hard into the man’s knee joints.
The operative crumpled with a sharp grunt, his rifle discharging harmlessly into the dark sky, showering the wet asphalt with a brilliant arc of sparks. Jax rolled over him, pinning the man's arm against the gravel while ripping the comms headset away from his neck.
"Toby! Run!" Jax bellowed, spitting mud from his mouth as he struggled against the thrashing guard beneath him.
From the concrete drainage culvert, Toby didn't hesitate. Guided by Martha—who had miraculously recovered her frantic energy—the boy bolted across the unpaved shoulder toward the dense line of pine trees bordering the interstate. Martha stumbled once, dragging the boy along by his jacket sleeve until they vanished completely into the black labyrinth of the forest.
The second operative, having recovered from the impact of the knife against his thick ceramic plate, lunged forward with a heavy combat boot, kicking Jax squarely in the ribs. Jax let out a sharp grunt of pain, tasting copper as a wave of hot blood filled his mouth, but his thick arms remained locked around the lead man’s throat like a vice grip.
"You're... a dead man... biker," the pinned operative choked out, his hands clawing desperately at Jax’s weathered wrists.
"I died twelve years ago in Phoenix," Jax growled into the man's ear, his voice dark and devoid of mercy. He tightened his grip until the struggling figure went completely limp, sliding unconscious into the freezing red puddles.
Jax rolled off the body, gasping for air as his old shoulder injury flared with a blinding, white-hot agony. He dragged himself up to one knee, wiping the rain and blood from his eyes, and looked toward the line of trees where Toby had disappeared. The tactical SUV's headlights illuminated the empty mud, the doors still swinging open in the wind.
Slowly, Jax stood up, his leather vest shredded, his knuckles raw and bleeding. He had won this round, but the war was only beginning. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small folded piece of paper the boy had given him back at the diner, unfolding it to read the rest of the text he hadn't finished before the window shattered.
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The handwriting wasn't Clara's. It was Sarah’s. And the final line made the blood run cold in his veins: “They are using the boy to find the vault in Cheyenne. Don't trust the sheriff.”
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