Chapter 14
The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the sea of rusted metal as Jax moved through the labyrinth of wrecked cars, stepping light and silent on the gravel. Ahead, near the main gate, the sound of raised voices carried over the stacks. He heard Eli shouting curses, followed by the dull, sickening thud of a fist hitting flesh.
Jax rounded the corner of a crushed semi-truck trailer and stepped into the clearing by the gate. Eli was down on one knee in the dust, holding a bleeding lip, while Bull stood over him with a vicious grin spread across his scarred face. Two other former club members stood behind Bull, their heavy leather vests covered in dust, iron chains wrapped casually around their knuckles.
“Where is he, old man?” Bull snarled, kicking Eli’s boot away. “Where’s Jax hiding the brat?”
“He ain't here, Bull,” Eli spat, wiping blood from his chin. “You’re trespassing on private property. Turn your choppers around before I let the dogs out.”
“You don't have any dogs, Eli,” Bull laughed darkly.
“He’s right here, Bull,” Jax said calmly, stepping out from the shadow of the semi-trailer.
The three bikers spun around. Bull’s grin widened into something feral and ugly. He cracked his knuckles, stepping forward as he eyed Jax up and down. “Well, look what the highway dragged in. Thought you’d gone soft, brother. Running away from your old family to play house with a dead girl’s brat.”
“Clara’s dead, and the club is a graveyard of rusted metal,” Jax said, his voice flat, steady, and utterly devoid of fear. He didn't pull his gun; he just planted his boots firmly in the dust, his massive shoulders squared. “This ends today, Bull. You walk out that gate right now, and I let you leave with your skin. You take one step toward that trailer, and I bury you both right here in the scrap.”
Bull let out a harsh laugh, signaling his two men to fan out to the sides. “You think you can take all three of us, Jax? You’re old. You’re out of practice.”
“Maybe,” Jax replied, his eyes narrowing as he dropped into a low, defensive stance. “But I’ve got something to protect now. You’re just fighting for a ghost.”
The two club thugs lunged forward at once, swinging their iron chains in a wide arc. Jax ducked under the first swing, driving his heavy boot straight into the attacker’s kneecap with a sickening crunch. As the man went down screaming, the second thug tackled Jax from the side, sending both of them crashing hard into a stack of rusted car doors. Metal shrieked and jagged edges tore at Jax’s leather vest, but he didn't hesitate. He wrapped his thick forearm around the thug’s neck, cutting off his air supply in a tight chokehold until the man went limp and slumped unconscious into the dirt.
Bull stared at the dust in disbelief, his bravado instantly evaporating as he realized Jax hadn't lost an ounce of his savage efficiency. Bull reached for the heavy hunting knife at his belt, but before his fingers could even wrap around the handle, Jax closed the distance between them with terrifying speed.
Jax slammed his fist into Bull’s jaw with the force of a falling anvil. Bull staggered backward, tripped over a loose hubcap, and hit the ground hard, spitting blood and teeth into the dirt.
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Jax stood over him, breathing heavily, his knuckles raw and bleeding, but completely untouched where it mattered. He looked down at Bull with cold, absolute indifference.
“Get on your bike,” Jax whispered, his voice like grinding stones. “And don't ever look back.”
