Chapter 4 - The Iron Ridge
The glare of high beams swallowed the narrow alley, blinding Jax as he straddled the heavy shovelhead. The headlights belonged to two matte-black pickup trucks, their grilles reinforced with heavy steel push-bars. The engines growled like caged beasts, revving in unison as they prepared to crush bike and rider against the dumpster wall.
"Hold on to my belt," Jax grunted, his vision swimming with sudden nausea from the bullet graze. "And keep your head down."
Toby didn't utter a sound. He wrapped his thin arms around Jax’s leather-clad waist, burying his face into the back of the vest.
Jax kicked the starter with everything he had. The shovelhead roared to life with a violent, spitting cough, the twin exhaust pipes barking defiance into the alley. He didn't turn around toward the dead end. Instead, he slammed the transmission into gear, dumped the clutch, and twisted the throttle to the stop.
The rear tire spun furiously against the greasy asphalt, throwing a roost of gravel and grime, then hooked up. The bike shot forward, straight down the alley toward the oncoming trucks.
At the last second, just as the truck's steel bumper seemed inches from their front fender, Jax stomped the rear brake and leaned the machine hard to the right, sliding the bike sideways through a gap between the lead truck and the brick corner of the dry cleaner's building. The handlebar clipped the brickwork with a shower of sparks, ripping the side mirror clean off, but the motorcycle tore through into the open street.
Shots cracked behind them, bullets snapping through the cold night air, but Jax was already leaning into the broad asphalt of Highway 9. The wind hit them like a wall of ice, howling through Jax’s tangled beard, whipping Toby’s messy hair against his temple.
Jax glanced down at his shoulder. The blood was soaking through his denim undershirt, painting the leather dark and sticky. He had twenty miles of fuel, no clean bandages, and an entire hunting pack behind him.
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In his rearview mirror, the headlights of the pickups burst onto the highway, their red running lights pulsing through the dusk like blood in an open wound.
Ahead, the black spine of the Iron Ridge mountains swallowed the last fading traces of daylight, offering no shelter—only an endless maze of abandoned lumber roads and freezing altitude.
