Chapter 11
The FXR’s engine roared to life, shattering the morning silence of the mountain ridge. Jax kicked the bike into gear, and they bumped back down the overgrown dirt track toward Highway 9. The ride down the mountain was smoother than the climb up, the morning sun burning away the lingering fog and revealing the vast, sweeping landscape of the Black Hills stretching out toward the horizon in endless waves of dark green pine and gray limestone cliffs.
They rode for an hour, the steady hum of the motor acting as a soothing rhythm between them. Leo’s hands were firmly locked around Jax’s belt, his small body leaning naturally into the curves of the bike. They stopped at a small, roadside diner outside of Hill City—a quiet, sunlit place with red vinyl booths and the smell of fresh pancakes hanging heavy in the air.
Martha’s Diner felt a lifetime away. Here, the waitress was a cheerful middle-aged woman who didn't ask questions when Jax ordered a stack of pancakes for the boy and a black coffee for himself. She just smiled warmly at Leo, noticing the oversized jacket, and slipped an extra side of bacon onto their plate without charging them. For the first time since his mother had passed away, Leo sat down at a table, ate a hot meal until his stomach was full, and didn't have to look over his shoulder.
Yet, as they walked back out to the bike an hour later, a heavy sense of unease settled over Jax’s shoulders. He spotted a dusty, black Ford pickup truck idling across the two-lane highway, parked half on the gravel shoulder. In the driver’s seat, half-hidden behind the tinted windshield and a cloud of blue cigarette smoke, sat a familiar silhouette. It was Bull.
Jax’s hand instantly went to the grip of his hunting knife. He stepped in front of Leo, shielding the boy from view, and stared hard across the asphalt at the truck. The pickup didn't pull out, nor did its driver get out. It just sat there, idling with a low, throaty rumble, watching them with predatory patience.
“Jax?” Leo whispered, his fingers tugging lightly on the back of Jax’s vest. “Who is that?”
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“Nobody important, kid,” Jax lied smoothly, his voice tight as steel. He unlocked the steering column of the FXR, climbed aboard, and motioned for Leo to hop on the back. “Just an old ghost checking to see if we’re still breathing.”
Jax kicked the starter, pulled a sharp U-turn on the empty highway, and accelerated hard, leaving the dusty pickup truck behind in a cloud of exhaust. But as they sped south toward Custer, Jax knew in his gut that Bull wasn't going to let them vanish so easily. The past had long arms, and the men Jax used to ride with didn't like loose ends.
