Chapter 7 - Crossfire And Broken Promises
The black barrels of four assault rifles caught the dying orange rays of the desert sun, gleaming with lethal promise. Jax froze, the heavy hunting knife in his hand suddenly feeling like a toothpick against the sheer firepower lined up in front of him. He slowly lowered his arm, his eyes darting frantically across the ruined mill yard, calculating angles, cover, and survival odds that were rapidly dropping to zero.
Marcus Vance let out a low, amused chuckle, smoothing down the lapels of his immaculate charcoal suit as he stepped back toward the safety of the armored SUV.
“Put the knife down, Jax. Don’t be a martyr,” Marcus mocked, gesturing lazily with his hand. “You’re a tough man, I’ll grant you that. But nobody dodges four automatic rifles at twenty paces. Not even an aging Sturgis legend.”
Jax’s mind raced. He glanced sideways out of the corner of his eye toward the dense cluster of boulders where Leo was hiding. The boy was partially shielded, but if those rifles opened fire, the ricochets off the rocks would turn the area into a slaughterhouse.
“Leave the kid out of this, Vance!” Jax yelled, his gravelly voice echoing off the corrugated iron walls of the mill. “He’s eight years old! He doesn’t know a damn thing about your offshore accounts!”
“He knows where his father hid the original ledger,” Marcus snapped back, his smooth composure cracking just enough to reveal the desperate greed beneath. “And until I have those pages in my hands, nobody leaves this valley alive. Bring him out, Jax. Now.”
From the shadows of the boulders, Leo heard every word. Instead of freezing in terror, a fierce surge of adrenaline pushed past his fear. He remembered the heavy leather backpack he had left tucked into a crevice behind a rotting stump twenty feet away. Inside was his father’s final confession—and the proof Marcus wanted so desperately to destroy.
Leo slowly, silently slipped backward away from the rocks, crawling on his hands and knees through the dry brush toward the rusted skeleton of an old flatbed truck parked near the mill’s loading bay.
Meanwhile, Jax stood his ground, deliberately raising his voice to draw the armed thugs’ total attention away from the boulders.
“You always were a coward, Marcus!” Jax taunted, taking a loud, defiant step forward. “Hiding behind hired guns because you don’t have the stomach to fight your own battles!”
The scarred thug from the diner—his face now decorated with a thick white bandage over his shattered cheekbone—stepped to the front of the line, leveling his rifle directly at the center of Jax’s chest.
“I’ve been waiting eight years for this shot, biker,” the scarred man snarled, his finger slowly curling around the trigger.
“Do it,” Jax whispered, bracing himself for the impact.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic crash echoed from the opposite side of the mill yard as an old metal barrel toppled over, followed by a frantic young voice shouting from the shadows.
“Hey! Over here, you cowards!”
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Every rifle barrel instantly snapped toward the sound, tracking away from Jax just as the first deafening volley of gunfire ripped through the desert air.
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