Chapter 4 - Blood On The Linoleum
The sharp crack of Bull’s wrist echoed through the Rust Bucket Diner like a gunshot, instantly silencing the few patrons left in the back booths. Bull let out a strangled, furious howl, stumbling backward against a wobbly Formica table that crashed to the floor, sending plastic salt and pepper shakers shattering across the dirty linoleum.
The second biker slammed his heavy palms onto the counter, his face contorting into a mask of pure rage as he reached inside his leather vest for a heavy hunting knife. "You just signed your death warrant, old man!" he roared, lunging forward.
Before the blade could clear the leather, Jax pivoted on his heel, driving his heavy work boot directly into the second biker’s chest. The man flew backward, crashing through the diner's front window with a thunderous explosion of shattering safety glass and flying shards. Cold desert air rushed into the room, carrying the smell of exhaust and impending violence.
Martha screamed, ducking behind the tall pie display as glass rained down across the floor. "Are you out of your mind?!" she shrieked, covering her ears. "You're going to get us all killed!"
Jax didn't answer. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his dark eyes darting rapidly toward the shattered window and then back to the doorway. Outside, the low rumble of motorcycle engines suddenly surged into a deafening roar as half a dozen more riders began revving their throttles in unison, alerted by the commotion.
"Jax..." the boy whispered, his voice remarkably steady despite the chaotic violence erupting around him. The child hadn't moved an inch from his spot at the counter, his small hand still resting protectively over the edge of the faded polaroid photograph. "They're here. They found us."
Jax whipped his head down, looking at the boy with a mix of fierce desperation and profound terror. He reached out, his massive, tattooed hand gently grabbing the child by the scruff of his oversized jacket and yanking him behind the safety of the heavy wooden counter.
"Stay down," Jax ordered in a breathless whisper, his face inches from the boy's pale, unblinking hazel eyes. "Do not move, no matter what you hear. Do you understand me?"
"I'm not leaving you behind," the boy replied stubbornly, his small fingers catching the fabric of Jax's worn leather vest. "Mom said you always run away when the fire starts. She said this time you have to stay."
"I'm not running," Jax growled, though the sound of heavy boots hitting the gravel outside the shattered window told him that time was running out faster than he could calculate.
Bull was back on his feet outside, holding his broken wrist with one hand while using the other to pull a heavy iron tire iron from his belt. Blood dripped from his chin onto the asphalt as he glared through the broken window frame, his lips curled back in a feral snarl.
"You're dead, Jax!" Bull screamed over the roar of the idling motorcycles. "You and that brat both! The boss wants those photos, and he wants that kid breathing or not!"
Martha crawled out from behind the counter, her face pale, her hands shaking violently as she pushed a heavy steel security lever located beneath the cash register. With a loud, mechanical groaning sound, thick iron shutters began to slide down over the diner's remaining front windows, blocking out the desert night and plunging the room into a dim, shadow-drenched twilight.
"The back kitchen door," Martha gasped, grabbing Jax by his forearm. Her eyes were wide with sheer panic, stripped of their earlier suspicion. "It leads out to the drainage ditch. If you don't get that boy out of here in the next thirty seconds, nobody's walking out of this town alive."
Jax looked from Martha's terrified face down to the eight-year-old boy, whose big hazel eyes were staring up at him with absolute, unwavering trust. Jax reached down, scooped the faded polaroid and the folded note off the counter, and shoved them into his vest pocket.
"Move," Jax commanded, lifting the boy effortlessly into his arms.
May you like
As they sprinted toward the swinging kitchen doors, a heavy thud shook the front entrance as iron pipes began hammering against Martha's newly lowered shutters.
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