Chapter 11
The desert night brought a sharp drop in temperature, turning the stifling heat of the afternoon into a biting chill that seeped through the cracks in the cabin walls. Inside, the small wood-burning stove crackled and popped, casting dancing shadows of orange and gold across the rough wooden floorboards. Leo was curled tightly under the heavy woolen blankets on the cot, breathing softly in a deep, restorative sleep.
Jax sat at the wooden table in the corner, cleaning a heavy hunting knife with an oil-soaked rag. The rhythmic scrape of steel against cloth was the only sound in the room, save for the low, restless hum of the desert wind outside. His eyes were hard, fixed on the dark windowpane that reflected the interior of the cabin like a mirror.
He had heard them an hour ago. The distinct, deep-throated rumble of modified exhaust pipes echoing up the canyon road wasn't the sound of casual travelers. It was the sound of a hunting pack. Vance and the Iron Skulls had found his trail, or they had squeezed the information out of someone at the diner in Copper Creek. Out here, miles from the nearest sheriff’s deputy, law and order were measured by the caliber of your weapon and the strength of your resolve.
Jax set the knife down on the table, stood up silently, and walked over to the corner where he kept a heavy canvas duffel bag. He unzipped it, pulling out a battered Remington shotgun and a box of red plastic shells. With practiced, mechanical efficiency, he loaded two rounds into the chamber, the heavy clack-clack sounding entirely too loud in the quiet room.
He checked on Leo. The boy stirred slightly at the sound, murmuring something unintelligible in his sleep before settling back down, his small hand clutching the faded photograph against his chest. Jax’s heart squeezed with a painful ache. He leaned down, gently brushing a lock of messy brown hair off the boy’s forehead.
“Stay down, kid,” Jax whispered into the dark. “No matter what happens out there, you stay right here.”
Moving with silent, predatory grace, Jax blew out the kerosene lamp, plunging the cabin into absolute darkness save for the flickering embers glowing through the iron door of the wood stove. He slipped a heavy leather jacket over his shoulders, stepped toward the front door, and eased the latch open without a sound.
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The night air hit him like a physical blow, freezing and sharp. Jax stepped out onto the porch, closing the door softly behind him. He didn't wait on the wooden steps where he would be silhouetted against the cabin. Instead, he melted into the deep shadows cast by a towering stack of rusted auto parts beside the workshop.
Down the dirt service road, two sets of twin headlights cut through the pitch-black darkness, sweeping wildly across the sagebrush as the bikes navigated the rocky terrain.
