Chapter 8: A Ghost from the Club
The leader of the trio was a massive, scarred brute named Kane, a man whose face bore the jagged souvenirs of too many bar fights and bad deals. Kane’s eyes lit up with malicious glee as he spotted Jax sitting quietly in the corner. He nudged the two men flanking him, a pair of heavyset enforcers built like brick outhouses, and they all swaggered toward the counter with slow, deliberate steps. The other patrons in the diner—mostly locals and a few passing tourists—wisely lowered their heads, pretending to study their menus or paying their bills in hurried silence to avoid getting caught in the crossfire.
"Well, well, well," Kane drawled, his voice grating like gravel grinding under a heavy truck tire. He stopped a few feet away from Jax’s stool, planting his heavy boots wide apart and crossing his thick, tattooed arms over his vest. "Look what the desert wind blew in. The prodigal ghost himself. We heard rumors you were still breathing, Jax, but seeing it with my own eyes almost ruins my day."
Jax didn't stand up. He kept his posture deceptively relaxed, though every muscle in his frame was coiled like a steel spring ready to snap. He kept his left arm positioned defensively around the back of Leo’s stool, shielding the boy from Kane’s predatory gaze. "We don't have anything to talk about, Kane," Jax said, his voice dangerously low and steady. "I cleared my debts with the charter five years ago. I'm out. Keep walking."
Kane let out a harsh, barking laugh that echoed uncomfortably off the diner walls. "Out? You don't ever just walk away from the Skulls, brother. Not with what you took when you left." Kane’s predatory gaze shifted downward, finally noticing the small, dust-covered boy sitting right beside the infamous fugitive. Kane’s eyes narrowed as he took in Leo’s oversized jacket, the faded photograph lying on the counter, and the open letter. A slow, cruel smile spread across Kane’s scarred face. "Well, what do we have here? Looks like you didn't leave empty-handed after all. Is this little stray yours, Jax? Sure looks like he’s got your stubborn eyes."
Leo shrank back against Jax’s side, his small hand instinctively grabbing onto the rough leather of the biker’s vest for protection. The sheer terror in the boy’s eyes sent a white-hot surge of adrenaline through Jax’s veins, burning away the last remnants of his caution.
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"Leave the boy out of this, Kane," Jax warned, each word clipped and lethal, carrying an unmistakable promise of violence if the line was crossed. "This is between you and me. He has nothing to do with the club."
"Everything you touch belongs to the club, Jax," Kane sneered, taking another threatening step closer. "And if you've got a kid stashed away out here in the sticks, that means he’s leverage. Boss wants a word with you, and now we’ve got a very good reason to bring you both back home—whether you like it or not."
