The thunder of engines drowned out everythingeven the pounding in Jacks chest. As dusk painted the sky in gold and violet, a little boy broke from the sidewalk and stumbled onto Main Street. He dropped to his knees right in the headlights, face twisted with panic.
A black Harley screeched to a halt, missing the boy by inches. The man at the handlebars, leather jacket coated in road dust, didnt bother with the kickstand. He leapt off just as the boy gasped through his sobs, Please! Please, my mom needs help!
Jacks eyes cut from the kid to the faded blue house across the yard. On the porch, a heavyset man cradled a whiskey tumbler, daring anyone to approach. No hesitationJack strode forward, boots pounding the asphalt.
Stay behind me, kid, he murmured, voice gravelly.
The porch groaned as he stepped up. The man barked, What do you think youre doing? Glass rattled as Jacks boot splintered the door with a single kick, shards flying everywhere.
Inside, the scent of old beer and fear clung to the walls. A womans muffled crying echoed from the back. Jack pressed forwardbut froze.
Not for fear.
Not for broken glass underfoot.
But on the hallway wall, beneath a crooked photo of happier days
Was a small, faded pink backpack.
Scratched up.
Threadbare.
Peeking with cartoon stars.
Jacks breath caught in his throat.
The boy behind him went quiet.
Mom?
Jacks hands curled into fists.
Because hed seen that backpack before.
Hed picked it out, years ago.
For a daughter he was told died in a house fire.
Eight years gone.
His name? Jack Reaper Mercer.
Hed outlasted bullets. Nursed graves for brothers. Done time.
But nothing knocked the wind out of him like this.
A sob from the back bedroom again.
Then a hoarse, breaking plea: Please dont hurt him
Jack surged down the hallway.
His shadow fell past busted picture frames, toppled beer cans, sheetrock cratered with fists.
The bedroom door rattledlocked.
One slamwood splintered.
He saw her.
On the bed.
Wrists zip-tied.
Blood crusted her lip.
One eye purpled shut.
She blinked up at him in disbelief.
Claire Dawson.
The only woman hed ever loved.
The woman hed mournedtold shed plummeted off a bridge.
She didnt breathe.
Jack?
The world stopped breathing, too.
He wasnt hearing engines or shouts outside, just the roar inside him.
She was alive.
Terrified.
But alive.
A soft sounda footstep behind him.
Mama
The little boy stepped in, voice trembling.
Claires eyes spilled over all at once.
And Jack saw it.
The boys face.
The jawline.
The eyeshis goddamn eyes.
Strong, even in fear.
His.
His son.
His voice cracked, thick as gravel.
How old?
Claire blinked away tears.
Seven.
Seven.
Jacks heart thudded in his chest.
Seven years since the car crash.
Since the closed casket.
Since the lies.
A laugh echoedharsh, slurred.
The man from the doorway swaggered in, spinning a revolver.
Well, aint this sweet, he sneered. Looks like a family reunion.
Jack turned slow.
His stare was ice.
The mans grip shook.
You dont want to try me, he threatened.
Jacks eyes flicked to the gun.
To the boy.
To Claireher bruises, her shackles, her stolen years.
Then Jack drew a smilewolfish.
Unforgiving.
Cold.
Outside, fifty Harley engines roared to life at once.
The house trembled.
The mans sneer curdled to terror.
Because he realized
He wasnt aiming at some biker on a rescue run.
He stood between a father,
And seven years
Of hell waiting to be settled.