Chapter 13
Before Vance could take a second step, Jax didn't aim for flesh; he pulled the front trigger, sending a deafening blast of buckshot into the dirt two inches in front of Vance’s heavy boots. The explosion of sound shattered the desert quiet, spraying rocks and dirt across the legs of the advancing men. The sheer force and precision of the warning shot stopped the attackers dead in their tracks.
Vance stumbled back, his face draining of color as the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the cold night air. The other two bikers dropped their chains, their hands instinctively flying up to signal they wanted no part of a suicide mission.
“I told you,” Jax said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly growl that echoed off the metal walls of the workshop. “The next one goes through bone. Get on your bikes and get off my property before I lose my patience.”
Vance stood trembling, his chest heaving with a mixture of furious rage and sheer terror. He looked at Jax’s stone-cold eyes, realizing with sudden, crushing clarity that the old biker wasn't bluffing. There was nothing left for Jax to lose, which made him the most dangerous man in the county.
“This isn't over, old man,” Vance hissed through gritted teeth, backing away slowly toward his motorcycle. “You can’t hide out here forever. Sooner or later, you gotta ride.”
“Then I’ll be waiting,” Jax replied without lowering the gun.
With angry revs of their engines and spitting gravel, the four Iron Skulls mounted their machines and tore back down the dirt road the way they had come, their tail-lights disappearing into the blackness of the desert within minutes.
Jax stood alone in the freezing night wind, his breathing heavy as the adrenaline slowly began to recede from his veins. He lowered the shotgun, his hands shaking slightly—not from fear, but from the overwhelming realization of how close he had come to crossing a line he could never return from. If he had killed Vance tonight, his life as a fugitive would begin all over again, and Leo would be left with nothing.
He turned slowly and walked back toward the cabin, pushing the heavy wooden door open. The interior was still warm, bathed in the soft glow of embers from the wood stove.
Leo was sitting up on the cot, clutching the woolen blankets tightly around his shoulders. His hazel eyes were wide and terrified, reflecting the flickering firelight.
“Jax?” the boy whispered, his voice trembling. “Are they gone?”
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Jax leaned the shotgun against the wall by the door, walked over to the cot, and sat down on the edge. He reached out, taking Leo’s small, cold hand in his massive, calloused palm.
“They’re gone, Leo,” Jax said softly, his voice gentle and steady. “They’re not coming back.”
