Chapter 12 - An Old Brother's Call
"Step off him, Jax."
The voice came from the dark pines. Jax froze, Silas still pinned under his knees, gasping for shallow air.
Out from the shadows stepped Bear—six-foot-six, four hundred pounds, wearing the colors of the Grim Nomads, Jax’s former motorcycle charter. Behind him emerged five more heavily armed bikers, their rifles trained not on Jax, but across the wreckage of Silas's mercenary crew.
"Clara called the clubhouse an hour ago," Bear said, his deep bass voice cutting through the drizzle. "She told us our former Vice President was fighting Silas’s dogs all by himself to protect his kid."
Silas spat blood into the dirt, wheezing. "Bear... we had a pact. The Iron Skulls control the northern pipeline..."
Bear walked over, lifted Silas by his vest like a bag of dirty laundry, and threw him into the mud in front of his crew. "Our pact was with men, Silas. Not cowards who hunt eight-year-old boys and murder mothers in their beds. You broke club code."
Jax staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his eyes. He turned his back on Silas, caring about nothing except the small figure collapsed on the porch steps.
"Leo!"
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Jax ran to the stairs, catching the boy just as the revolver slipped from his numb fingers. Leo’s pulse was dangerously fast, fluttering like a trapped sparrow in his tiny wrist. His lips were completely blue now, his abdomen swollen and rigid.
"Bear!" Jax yelled, his voice breaking with sheer terror. "Doc Evans is tied to the bumper over there. Get him untied! The boy swallowed lead. He’s dying!"
