Chapter 8: The Midnight Blueprint
The garage doors were locked tight, and only a single trouble light illuminated the workbench where Jax and Leo sat leaning over a sprawling state map covered in grease smudges and red pen circles. The custom chopper stood fully assembled in the center of the room, its matte-black frame gleaming under the single bulb, ready for the road. The sweet, sharp scent of fresh gasoline and engine oil filled the air. Jax pointed a thick finger at a winding route snaking northward through the dense pine forests toward the state border, bypassing the major interstate toll booths where automated license plate readers and corporate security cameras monitored every vehicle.
"We take Route 9 outside the city limits," Jax explained, his voice low and steady. "It’s an old logging highway—mostly gravel, steep grades, and zero cell service. Corporate cars like the ones Vance uses can't handle the washboard ruts without tearing up their oil pans. We stick to the back roads until we hit the foothills, then ditch the pavement entirely."
Leo nodded, tracing the red pen line with his small finger. He felt a knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach, but the paralyzing fear he had felt in the glass mansion was gone, replaced by a strange, fierce sense of purpose. He looked up at Jax, whose rugged face was etched with deep lines of fatigue under the harsh light. "What happens when we get to the foothills?" he asked softly.
"We find an old friend of mine—someone who owes me a favor and hates corporate landlords even more than I do," Jax said, leaning back in his metal stool and crossing his arms. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a worn leather wallet, sliding out a folded business card with a faded phone number stamped onto it. "He runs an old timber sawmill off the grid. If anyone can help us disappear and keep us off their radar permanently, it's him."
Suddenly, a sharp, metallic rapping sound echoed from the front service door. It wasn't a polite knock; it was three heavy, rhythmic strikes of a fist against steel—the kind of knock delivered by people who believed they owned the building, the street, and everyone on it.
Jax instantly froze, his hand dropping silently toward the hidden compartment beneath the workbench where his revolver rested. He shot a sharp, warning glance at Leo, signaling the boy to slip behind the high metal shelving unit near the back office. Leo scrambled quietly, his scuffed sneakers making barely a whisper against the concrete floor as he ducked out of sight behind a stack of spare tires and heavy-duty parts crates.
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"Open up, Mr. Jax," a smooth, cultured voice called from the other side of the heavy steel door. It wasn't a police officer, and it wasn't a street thug. It was the voice of a corporate lawyer—polite, chillingly calm, and utterly ruthless. "We know you're in there. And we know you have unauthorized company property with you. Let's resolve this like civilized men before local law enforcement gets involved."
Jax stood up slowly to his full height, his broad shoulders squared beneath his worn leather vest. He didn't answer the door immediately. Instead, he grabbed a heavy iron pry bar from the workbench, hefting its weight in his hand, and walked slowly toward the entrance, his jaw set like granite.
