Chapter 3 - Whispers of the Past
Jax released Brick’s collar so fast it looked like he’d touched a live wire. The younger biker chuckled darkly, smoothing down his vest while casting one last lingering, predatory look at the boy clutching the folded paper. Without another word, Brick turned on his heel and pushed his way back out into the blinding afternoon sun, letting the heavy glass door slam shut behind him.
The diner let out a collective breath. Sarah lowered the coffee decanter, her chest heaving as she stared hard at Jax. The heavy tension in the room had shifted from casual hostility to something far darker and more dangerous.
Jax slowly turned back toward the counter. His face had gone completely pale beneath his thick beard, his deep-set eyes wide with an emotion he usually kept locked behind iron doors. He looked down at his right hand, which still rested just inches from the hidden photograph.
“Who sent you?” Jax asked, his voice cracking slightly as he looked down at the boy.
“Nobody sent me,” the boy replied, his voice steady despite his small frame. “I came by myself. On the morning bus from Oakhaven.”
Sarah gasped, dropping a rag onto the floor. “Oakhaven? Kid, that’s eighty miles north through the mountain pass. You rode a greyhound bus all by yourself at eight years old?”
“My mom’s sick,” the boy said, his lower lip trembling for the first time. “She’s been sick for a long time. Last week, she coughed up blood and gave me this box. She told me to find the man in this picture. She said his name was Jax, and that he owned a bike with a broken eagle on the gas tank.”
Jax stepped back as if he had been physically struck. The words hung in the stale diner air like lead weights. The broken eagle. He hadn’t thought about that custom paint job in nearly a decade—a sloppy, desperate repair job he’d done himself in the dirt behind an abandoned motel outside of Flagstaff.
“What’s your name, kid?” Jax asked, his voice barely a whisper now.
“Leo,” the boy answered, his big hazel eyes locking onto Jax’s soul. “Leo Vance.”
Sarah’s eyes widened in sudden recognition. She reached out, grabbing Jax’s forearm with a grip that surprised him.
“Jax,” she whispered urgently. “Vance. Clara Vance? Down by the river road years ago? You ran with her brother before the whole outfit went up in smoke.”
May you like
Before Jax could answer, the roar of a heavy engine revved directly outside the window, and a blinding set of headlights cut through the dusty diner glass, signaling that someone was watching them from the parking lot.
---
