Chapter 4
The desert heat hit them like a wall the moment the heavy glass door swung shut behind them. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the asphalt parking lot, bouncing blinding white glare off the chrome exhausts of twenty parked motorcycles. The air smelled of hot rubber, gasoline, and dust carried in by the dry wind sweeping down from the mountains.
Jax walked slowly, keeping his stride measured so the boy wouldn't have to break into a trot to keep up. He led Leo toward his shovelhead, a heavy, black-painted machine covered in road grime and minor dents that told the story of countless miles logged across state lines. Jax leaned his hip against the leather-wrapped handlebars, pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his vest pocket. He offered one to the air out of pure habit, stopped himself, and shoved the pack back down without lighting it.
Leo stood close to the front tire, his small hands buried deep in the pockets of his oversized canvas jacket. He looked up at the towering engine with a mix of awe and familiarity, as if the rhythmic thrum of an internal combustion engine was a lullaby he had fallen asleep to every night of his short life.
“Is that the bike from the picture?” Leo asked, his voice barely audible over the distant whistle of wind tearing across the flats.
“No,” Jax said, spitting a speck of dust from his tongue. “That one went to the scrap yard in Nevada five years ago. This is a different beast. Same frame of mind, though. Always breaking down when you need her to run, and always running when you want her to die.”
From the doorway of the diner, two men in matching leather vests stepped out into the glare, shielding their eyes against the blinding light. Cracker, a broad-shouldered man with a scar running from his ear down to his collarbone, eyed the boy suspiciously while pulling a toothpick from his teeth.
“Everything straight, Jax?” Cracker called out, his boots crunching on the gravel as he ambled over. “We rolling out in ten minutes or what? Bull’s already bitching about losing the daylight before we hit the canyon pass.”
Jax didn't look back at his partner. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, where the highway vanished into a shimmering mirage of heat and white dust. “Give me twenty minutes, Cracker. Tell Bull to kick his tires and shut his mouth. I got business to sort out.”
Cracker’s gaze drifted down to Leo, taking in the frayed cuffs of the boy’s jacket and the scuffed sneakers covered in alkali dust. A slow, knowing smirk played at the corners of Cracker’s mouth. He had known Jax through the lean years, knew the dark history buried under the tattoos and the silence.
“That your business standing there lookin’ like a stray dog, brother?” Cracker asked, his tone dropping into a low, warning growl. “We ain't running a daycare service. You know what happens if we get bogged down with civilian baggage on this run. The club don't stop for family reunions, especially the kind that come looking for bail money.”
“This ain't a family reunion,” Jax said coldly, finally turning his head to meet Cracker’s eyes. The two men locked stares for three long, heavy seconds—a silent negotiation backed by years of shared danger and mutual respect. Jax’s expression didn't waver. “It’s an errand. Go tell Bull to wait.”
Cracker spat a jet of brown tobacco juice onto the hot asphalt, shook his head, and turned back toward the diner doors without another word. He knew better than to push Jax when that specific dead look settled into his hazel eyes.
When the door slammed shut again, Jax turned back to the boy. Leo was tracing a scratch on the motorcycle’s gas tank with one dirty fingernail, his expression entirely devoid of fear.
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“You said your momma’s locked up in Ridgeview,” Jax said, pulling the ledger page back out of his vest pocket and unfolding it. “And you said she didn't set that fire. Why do you think I can prove it?”
Leo looked up, his big hopeful eyes catching the harsh desert light. “Because she kept a box under the floorboards of our trailer. She said if the men with the badges ever came back, I had to find the man who wrote these numbers down. She said you were the only one who knew what was inside the storage unit in Red Creek.”
