Chapter 3 - Shattered Glass
The front doors caved inward, showering the linoleum floor in wooden splinters and warped metal. Two men in tactical vests stepped through the opening, assault rifles resting low against their hips. The lead man, a broad-shouldered enforcer with a barbed-wire tattoo curling up his jawline, scanned the quiet diner until his cold stare locked onto the boy.
"There's the little package," the enforcer barked into a shoulder radio. "Found him at the truck stop on Route 4."
"Get down!" Jax roared.
With one sweeping motion of his tattooed forearm, Jax shoved Leo behind the heavy industrial ice machine under Clara’s counter. In the same breath, Jax caught the heavy diner stool by its steel post, ripped it upward against its worn bolts, and hurled it across the room. The stool struck the second gunman square in the chest, knocking him backward through the shattered doorway.
Gunfire erupted. The diner erupted into screaming chaos. Truckers threw themselves under booths, plates shattered against walls, and Clara ducked behind the grill, grabbing a heavy cast-iron skillet.
Jax didn't draw a gun; he didn't have one on his belt. Club rules in this town forbade carrying iron inside the diner. He lunged over the counter, ducking beneath a spray of high-caliber rounds that chewed the ceiling into white plaster rain. Closing the distance in three violent strides, Jax slammed the lead enforcer against the doorframe, his thumbs digging into the man's throat until cartilage snapped.
The radio on the man's vest squawked to life. A voice Jax hadn't heard in eight years crackled through the static—smooth, venomous, and dripping with hatred.
May you like
"Bring the boy's stomach to me, Jax. Or I'll skin you both on the asphalt."
Behind him, a terrified shriek cut through the smoke: the second gunman had crawled through the side window and had Leo by his jacket collar.
