Chapter 9 - The Sheriff’s Badge
The rain slowed to a misty, miserable drizzle as Jax limped away from the idling tactical SUV, keeping his head low as he retreated into the thick canopy of pine trees lining the highway. His boots crunched softly against the wet pine needles, every step sending a fresh jolt of agony through his bruised ribs. He pressed his hand against his side, feeling the warm, sticky trail of blood soaking through his torn shirt beneath the scarred leather vest.
"Jax!" a shaky whisper called out from the darkness ahead.
A small hand reached out from behind the thick trunk of an old oak tree, grabbing the sleeve of Jax's jacket. He spun around instinctively, his fist raised, before he caught the pale, terrified face of the eight-year-old boy looking up at him. Martha stood a few feet behind the child, leaning heavily against a mossy boulder, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.
"You're bleeding," Toby said softly, his big hazel eyes filling with unshed tears as he stared at the dark stain spreading across Jax's vest.
"I'm fine, kid," Jax rasped, leaning his back against the rough bark of the tree to steady himself. He pulled the folded note from his pocket, the damp paper tearing slightly as he smoothed it out against his thigh. The warning echoed in his mind like a death knell: Don't trust the sheriff.
"Where are we going now?" Martha asked, her voice cracking with exhaustion as she wrung out the hem of her stained apron. "The whole town is going to be swarming with cops after what happened back at the diner. We can't stay on the highway, and we certainly can't go back for your bike."
"We aren't going back," Jax said grimly, his gaze shifting toward the distant glow of the town center visible over the crest of the hill. "We're going to the local precinct. The note says the sheriff is tied into this. If he's working with the syndicate, that means the entire local law enforcement is compromised. But it also means the sheriff has the comms logs, and he knows where the transit vans are moving tonight."
"Are you crazy?" Martha hissed, stepping forward out of the shadows. "You want to walk straight into a police station after a shootout on the interstate? They'll lock you up and throw away the key—or worse, hand you straight back to those men in the black suits!"
"If we run into the woods, they'll hunt us down by morning with thermal drones," Jax argued, his voice flat and resolute. "Our only chance is to take the fight to them before they consolidate their positions. Besides, I need to know why the sheriff traded his badge for syndicate blood money."
Toby stepped closer to Jax, his small hand tentatively reaching out to brush against the biker's calloused fingers. "I want to help," the boy whispered. "My mom—Sarah—she told me if things went bad, I had to give you the silver key from the lining of my jacket."
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Jax froze. He looked down at the boy, watching as Toby awkwardly fumbled with the frayed inner lining of his oversized coat, pulling out a small, heavy brass key attached to a piece of dirty twine.
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