Chapter 6 - Shadows Under the Bridge
The silence that followed the engine’s death was louder than the roar of the exhaust. Jax coasted the dying motorcycle down the reverse slope of the ridge, guiding it behind a dense thicket of sagebrush and into the hollow beneath a collapsed concrete culvert.
The bike stopped. Jax hauled it onto its kickstand, swung his leg over, and reached for Toby. The boy was frozen stiff, his hands locked in a death grip on Jax’s empty belt.
""Hey,"" Jax said, his voice lowering, shedding the harshness of the fight. He reached out with both hands and gently pried Toby’s fingers loose, one by one. ""Hey. It’s over for now. Look at me.""
Toby looked up. Through the oversized visor of the motorcycle helmet, his hazel eyes were dinner plates, damp with terror, his chest heaving in short, shallow gasps. Jax carefully unbuckled the strap and lifted the heavy helmet off. The boy’s messy light brown hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat.
""Are they dead?"" Toby whispered, his chin quivering.
""One of them is out of the fight,"" Jax replied coldly, though he kept his gaze averted from the kid's face. He didn't want to see Elena’s eyes staring back at him. ""The other one will regroup. We have about twenty minutes before the rest of their pack sweeps the secondary trails.""
Jax knelt beside the bike’s engine block. A rock kicked up from the road had punched a clean puncture through the oil filter. Black, viscous oil was steadily pooling into the pale desert dirt. The engine was dry. They weren't riding anywhere.
Toby sat down on a flat rock beneath the concrete overhang, pulling his knees to his chest. He looked so small against the stark concrete ruins. Jax pulled the torn, crumpled note from his pocket, flattening it against his thigh with his palm.
There was more writing on the back that he hadn't seen in the diner.
Jax, Elena’s handwriting was faint, wavering toward the bottom of the page. The sickness took my lungs. I kept him safe as long as I could. He knows his father was an outlaw, but I told him you were a protector. Don't make me a liar from the grave.
Jax felt a sudden, suffocating ache behind his ribs. He balled his fist around the paper, leaning his forehead against the cold concrete wall.
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""She kept your picture on the fridge,"" Toby said quietly from the shadows. ""Every time we moved to a new shelter, that was the first thing she put up. She said you were busy saving the world."" Toby looked at Jax's dusty leathers, his scarred knuckles, the grim set of his jaw. ""You don't look like you're saving anything.""
Jax slowly turned his head to look at the boy. Before he could speak, a soft rustle sounded from the dry brush above the culvert, followed by the distinct sound of a shotgun cocking.
