Chapter 10
The rain hammered relentlessly against the rotting wooden shingles of the Horizon Motel, a desolate two-story relic of a bygone era clinging to the edge of the interstate.
A single flickering neon sign buzzed erratically, casting a sickly pink glow over the deserted parking lot where a handful of rusted sedans sat abandoned.
Jax shoved Leo gently behind a rotting ice machine near the base of the outdoor staircase, scanning the second-floor walkway for any sign of movement.
"Stay here, keep your head down, and do not make a sound," Jax whispered urgently, wiping rain and sweat from his eyes.
"Mom's room is number twelve," Leo whispered, his teeth chattering violently from the cold. "At the very end of the walkway."
Jax nodded, drawing a heavy pistol he had managed to snatch from the gunman back at the overpass, checking the magazine with a quick, practiced motion.
He slipped out from behind the ice machine, moving with an eerie, silent grace that belied his massive physical size.
He scaled the wooden stairs, his boots making no sound against the damp wood, hugging the shadowed wall of the motel as he approached room twelve.
The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of warm yellow light spilling out onto the wet walkway.
Jax froze, listening intently.
Inside, he heard the low murmur of voices—one harsh and demanding, the other weak, exhausted, but fiercely defiant.
"Where is the flash drive, Sarah? You can't run forever," a man’s voice growled inside the room.
"Go to hell, Thorne," a woman replied. Her voice was raspy, worn down by illness and fear, but carrying that same unyielding steel that Jax knew all too well.
Sarah.
Jax’s chest tightened. He gripped the pistol tighter, raising his boot and kicking the motel door open with a deafening crash that splintered the frame.
The door slammed against the interior wall, revealing a cramped, shabby motel room.
A man in a tactical vest—Thorne—was standing over a pale, gaunt woman lying on a rumpled double bed, a silver gun pressed against her temple.
Sarah turned her head, her sunken eyes widening in sheer disbelief as she looked straight at Jax standing in the doorway.
"Jax..." she breathed, a tear cutting a clean path down her pale, hollow cheek.
Thorne spun around instantly, his gun pivoting away from Sarah’s head and pointing directly at Jax’s chest.
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"Well, look who finally decided to show up to his own funeral," Thorne sneered, a wicked grin spreading across his scarred face. "Drop the piece, Jax, or the girl takes a bullet right between the eyes."
Jax stared down the barrel of Thorne's gun, his mind racing as he calculated the impossible odds.
