Chapter 6: Shadows on the Street
The next morning, the rain had cleared, leaving the city streets slick and glistening under a pale, watery sun. Inside Iron Horse Custom Motors, the atmosphere was thick with quiet tension. Jax stood by the front window, peering through a small, clear patch in the frosted glass out onto the quiet industrial avenue. Across the street, parked discreetly near a shuttered warehouse, sat a sleek black luxury sedan with heavily tinted windows. It hadn't moved for two hours. The engine was off, but the driver’s silhouette was clearly visible against the windshield. They were watching the garage, waiting, biding their time until the right moment.
Leo sat at the sturdy oak workbench, carefully tracing the pattern of an old motorcycle piston with the tip of a pencil on a scrap piece of paper. He had eaten a breakfast of canned soup and dry toast that Jax had scrounged up from the back storage room. Despite the looming threat parked across the street, the boy felt safer here than he had in years. The constant surveillance of the Vance estate was gone, replaced by the steady, rhythmic ticking of cooling engines and the low hum of Jax’s radio.
Jax turned away from the window, his jaw clenched tight. He walked over to the workbench, picked up a heavy crescent wrench, and began methodically cleaning it with a rag. "They found us faster than I expected," Jax said quietly, keeping his voice low so it wouldn't carry toward the front door. " Vance has eyes everywhere in this town. City permits, utility logs, traffic cams—if you use a card or step on a bus, someone logs it."
"Are they going to break the door down?" Leo asked, looking up from his drawing, his hazel eyes wide but steady. He gripped the edge of the workbench with both hands, his knuckles turning slightly pale.
"Not in broad daylight, not right here," Jax replied, though his tone lacked absolute conviction. "Corporate cowards like Eleanor Vance prefer cleaner weapons than sledgehammers. They use lawyers, bank freezes, and CPS threats. They want to make it look like they're rescuing you, while locking you back in their gilded cage where you can't talk about what happened to your mother."
Jax set the wrench down with a heavy thud and walked over to a secure wall cabinet near the back office. He spun the combination lock with practiced ease, pulled open the heavy steel door, and reached inside. When he turned back around, he held an old, worn leather holster containing a heavy steel-frame revolver—a relic from a life he had sworn off years ago. He stared at it for a long moment, his thumb tracing the checkered wooden grip before sliding the holster into a hidden compartment beneath the workbench. Violence wasn't the answer, but being unprepared was suicide.
"We need to move, kid," Jax said firmly, walking back toward Leo. "Not today, but soon. Once they confirm you're in here, they'll pull legal strings by tomorrow morning. We need to pack up the tools that matter, secure the bike, and find a place where their long arms can't reach."
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"Where can we go?" Leo asked, sliding off the metal stool and standing up tall in his oversized flannel shirt. "Everywhere we go, they seem to own the ground we stand on."
"Not everywhere," Jax muttered, a distant, haunted look crossing his rugged features. "There's a place up north in the foothills where the paper trails end and the gravel roads begin. But to get there, we're going to need a vehicle that can outrun a corporate tracking device." He pointed a calloused finger toward the tarp-covered shape in the far corner of the garage. "And that means it's time to wake the beast."
