Chapter 11: The Breaking Point
The first pale streaks of gray light were beginning to bleed over the horizon, cutting through the dense canopy of pine trees surrounding Eli’s workshop. Inside the building, the air was still warm, smelling of hot engine oil and stale coffee. Jax stood by the workbench, unrolling a crumpled paper map of the tri-state area under the harsh light of a drop cord, while Eli leaned over his shoulder, pointing a grease-stained finger at a winding secondary route that avoided the interstate highways entirely.
“If you take Route 9 through the valley,” Eli explained in a low rasp, “you’ll bypass the county line where the state troopers usually set up speed traps during the rally. More importantly, it keeps you miles away from the clubhouse and the motels where Marcus and his crew are sleeping off last night’s whiskey.”
Jax nodded slowly, memorizing every curve and intersection on the map. He knew every mile of these back roads like the back of his hand, having ridden them for a decade as an enforcer for the club. But doing it in an aging, conspicuous red pickup truck with an eight-year-old boy asleep in the passenger seat was an entirely different game.
“What about fuel?” Jax asked, his eyes scanning the map for isolated gas stations. “The truck’s tank won’t make it all the way to Ohio without a stop.”
“There’s an abandoned co-op about forty miles north,” Eli replied, pulling a heavy brass key ring from his pocket and dropping it onto the wooden surface beside the map. “Old man Henderson died five years ago, and the pumps have been dry since, but there’s a five-gallon jerrycan of fresh unleaded stored in the back shed. Take it with you. It’ll get you past the county line.”
Leo sat on the metal folding chair nearby, his head resting against his knees as exhaustion finally overtook him. The oversized leather jacket was zipped up to his chin, and his steady, quiet breathing was the only sound cutting through the hum of the overhead lights. Jax looked over at his son, a fierce, protective ache tightening in his chest. He knew that the moment he walked away from the club—the moment Marcus realized Jax had chosen a child over the patch—there would be no going back. He would be marked as a traitor, hunted by the very brothers he had bled alongside for years.
Suddenly, the heavy silence of the dawn was shattered by a distant, unmistakable sound: the low, vibrating thunder of a half-dozen heavy V-twin engines roaring down the asphalt highway outside.
Jax froze. Eli’s head snapped up, his weathered face draining of color behind his wire-rimmed glasses.
May you like
“They’re early,” Eli hissed, stepping quickly toward the front window and parting the grimy blinds by a fraction of an inch.
Through the cracked glass, Jax saw the terrifying sight of three matte-black motorcycles pulling off the highway and turning onto the gravel driveway leading directly toward the workshop. At the lead was Marcus himself—a towering, heavily tattooed brute with a scarred face and cold, dead eyes that looked as though they had never known joy. The club president had come looking for Jax.
