Chapter 8
The rushing sound of the mountain river echoed up through the dark ravine, mixing with the heavy, ragged breathing of the man and the boy as they huddled together behind the sagebrush. Jax pulled Leo close, running a calloused, trembling hand over the boy’s messy light brown hair to check for hidden injuries. Aside from a few shallow scratches on his forearms from the broken glass, Leo was miraculously intact.
"We're alive, kid," Jax muttered, his voice rough and strained as he hauled himself to his feet and helped Leo up. "And that means we keep moving. That operative had a radio communicator on his vest. The rest of their squad will be sweeping this ridge within ten minutes."
Jax stripped the communications headset and a loaded 9mm pistol off the unconscious operative, shoving the firearm securely into the waistband of his jeans. He didn't like carrying hardware, but the rules of the road had drastically changed. This wasn't a turf war anymore; it was a ghost hunt, and the ghosts were armed to the teeth.
They scrambled up the steep, loose dirt embankment, fighting for every inch of traction until they reached the safety of the ridge road where the heavy chopper was still parked in the shadows of the ranger cabin.
Jax hoisted Leo onto the bike, wrapping his own plaid shirt around the boy’s trembling shoulders to ward off the biting mountain chill. He swung his leg over the saddle, kicked the starter, and brought the massive V-twin engine roaring back to life with a thunderous growl that shattered the silence of the wilderness.
"Hold on tight, Leo. We're heading for the state line," Jax shouted over the vibrating roar of the exhaust.
They tore down the unpaved washboard road without turning on the headlight, navigating the treacherous mountain curves purely by muscle memory and moonlight. For twenty grueling miles, they raced through the dark wilderness, putting as much distance between themselves and the syndicate's ambush site as humanly possible.
As they finally hit the paved interstate heading south toward the neon glow of the distant city limits, Jax reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the crinkled yellow legal pad paper Leo had handed him earlier in the alley. The words Your brother is still alive continued to burn in his mind like acid.
He needed answers, and the only person who knew the truth about what happened eighteen years ago wasn't dead.
They pulled off the highway an hour later, parking the chopper behind a dilapidated, twenty-four-hour truck stop on the edge of the industrial district. The neon sign buzzed and flickered with a sickly green hum, illuminating the greasy asphalt lot filled with rusted semi-trucks and lonely travelers.
"Stay by the bike, Leo," Jax instructed softly, stepping down onto the asphalt. "I need to make a phone call. A real one. From a payphone that hasn't been tapped."
Leo nodded, his hazel eyes tracking every shadow in the dimly lit parking lot.
Jax walked over to a vandalized, weather-beaten payphone bolted to the side of the brick diner wall. He pulled a handful of heavy silver coins from his pocket—relics of a bygone era he had kept out of stubborn habit—and fed them into the slot with mechanical precision.
His calloused finger punched a ten-digit number he hadn't dialed in eighteen years. A number he knew carved directly into his own heartbeat.
The line rang once. Twice. Three times. The hollow, electronic tone echoed in his ear like a ticking time bomb. Just as Jax was about to slam the receiver down in defeat, a sharp click echoed through the line, followed by the heavy, rhythmic breathing of someone listening on the other end.
"If this is a collection agency, you're twenty years too late," a raspy, beaten-down voice whispered through the receiver.
May you like
Jax froze, the breath completely deserting his lungs as he recognized the voice instantly.
"It's not a collection agency, brother," Jax choked out, a tear carving a clean path through the dirt and grime on his weathered cheek. "I got the ledger. And I'm coming to finish what we started."
