Chapter 2
The harsh glare of the diner's neon sign flickered overhead, casting an erratic red glow across Jax’s weathered face. He stood frozen, his eyes darting from the small folded paper back to the boy, whose chest rose and fell in shallow, anxious breaths. The air in the diner felt instantly suffocating, stripped of all oxygen by the sheer weight of the words written in that familiar, long-dead handwriting.
"Where did you get this?" Jax demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh, desperate whisper. He leaned in close, ignoring the way Martha was now openly glaring at them from behind the pie case, her hand hovering just inches from the telephone receiver. "Who told you to bring this to me? Answer me, kid!"
"My mom," the boy answered, his voice remarkably steady despite the chaotic noise surrounding them. "She kept it in her lockbox. She told me that if the bad men ever found our apartment, I was supposed to run straight to the highway, find the biggest motorcycle rally, and look for the man with the wolf tattoo on his forearm."
Jax instinctively pulled his left sleeve down, covering the faded ink that marked his past allegiances. A cold sweat broke out across his neck. Eighteen years. He had spent nearly two decades convincing himself that the ghosts of his old club were buried deep beneath the asphalt, forgotten by everyone except his own nightmares. He had traded violence for isolation, moving from town to town on the back of his chopper, refusing to let anyone get close enough to hurt.
And now, here stood the living, breathing consequence of the one summer he had tried to live like a human being instead of an outlaw.
"Jax, I'm dialing," Martha warned, her finger pressing firmly down on the receiver hook of the landline. Her eyes darted toward the boy with fierce maternal instinct. "That kid belongs in social services, not standing here trading secrets with a drifter. Step away from him right now, or the sheriff is going to meet you at the edge of town."
"Don't call them, Martha," Jax said, his voice laced with a dangerous, urgent command that made the waitress pause. He reached out and grabbed the boy gently by the shoulder, feeling the startling fragility of the child's bones beneath the old jacket. "We're leaving. Now."
"Leaving? Oh no, you don't," Martha snapped, coming around the end of the counter, her apron rustling sharply. "You aren't dragging some poor kid out into that biker crowd without answers. What is going on here, Jax? I've known you five years, and I've never seen you look terrified. What did that paper say?"
Jax didn't answer. He scooped up the faded photograph and the folded note, shoving them deep into his vest pocket. He looked down at the boy, whose big hazel eyes searched his face not with fear, but with an agonizing, misplaced trust. It was a look Jax knew he didn't deserve, a look that terrified him far more than any loaded gun ever could.
"What's your name, kid?" Jax asked softly, the rough edges of his voice finally cracking slightly.
"Leo," the boy replied.
"Alright, Leo," Jax muttered, glancing toward the diner's large front windows that looked out onto the blinding asphalt highway. "We're going to walk out that side exit toward the alley. You keep your head down, you hold onto the hem of my vest, and you don't look back for any reason. Understand?"
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"They're already outside, Jax," Leo whispered, his hazel eyes widening with sudden, sharp terror as he pointed a trembling finger toward the tinted glass of the front window.
Jax whipped his head around, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged animal. Parked directly across the dusty gravel lot, idling menacingly among the rows of chrome-heavy choppers, was a sleek, matte-black unmarked sedan. Its tinted windows were rolled up tight, but Jax didn't need to see who was inside. He knew the silhouette of that vehicle all too well. It belonged to the syndicate he had run away from eighteen years ago, and they had just found him.
