It was a sign of ultimate disrespect. Jon’s blood boiled as he saw a piece of clear plastic tape stuck directly to his custom upholstery. “Son of a bitch,” Jon growled, his massive hands balling into fists. He stepped closer, preparing to rip the offending object off and hunt down whoever had dared to deface his property.
But as he looked down, the anger drained from his body, replaced by a cold, paralyzing shock. Taped to the seat was a crisp $1 bill. Beneath the tape was a small torn piece of a diner napkin. Written on it in waxy purple crayon were the clumsy oversized letters of a child learning to write. To buy a new yaket don’t be sad.
Jon stopped breathing. The desert wind seemed to fade into absolute silence. He stared at the purple crayon and suddenly he wasn’t standing in a sweltering parking lot in Odessa. He was standing in a sterile hospital room eight years ago. He was holding the tiny lifeless hand of his own daughter, Maya.
Maya, who used to write him little notes in purple crayon and hide them in his boots before he went on runs. Maya, whose leukemia had drained the life from her before she even reached her sixth birthday. After she died, Jon had abandoned his former life, throwing himself completely into the violent, numbing brotherhood of the club.
Desperate to feel anything other than the crushing agony of his failure to protect his little girl, Jon slowly peeled the tape off the seat, his large, calloused fingers trembling slightly. He held the dollar bill and the note in his palm as if he were holding a fragile glass artifact. John Wrench asked, his voice laced with confusion.
What is it? A threat? No, Jon said, his voice unusually thick. He carefully folded the dollar and the note, placing them into the breast pocket of his cut directly over his heart. He turned around, his eyes locking onto the large plate glass window of the diner. He marched back toward the entrance, moving with a terrifying purpose.
Wrench and the others followed, confused, but ready for whatever violence was about to unfold. Jon burst through the doors. The diner patrons, who had just begun to relax, instantly stiffened. Jon ignored them all and walked directly to the counter, cornering Brenda. “Who was it?” Jon demanded, his voice low, but carrying a frequency that commanded absolute obedience.
Brenda trembled, dropping a coffee pot into the sink with a loud clatter. “I I don’t want any trouble, mister. Please, I’m not bringing trouble,” Jon said, trying to soften his terrifying demeanor. Though largely failing, he pointed a massive finger toward the window. A little girl, blonde hair, was in here just a minute ago. Who is she? Brenda swallowed hard, looking toward the booth that Abigail and Khloe had just vacated. That was Abigail.
Abigail Montgomery and her little girl, Chloe. Where did they go? They left out the back door right after you guys walked out the front, Brenda whispered. Look, Mister Abigail has had a rough go of it. Her husband died a while back. She’s a good mother. She really is. They’re struggling. Don’t hurt them, please.
Jon leaned over the counter, his eyes burning with an intense, unreadable emotion. Struggling how? Brenda hesitated, terrified of saying the wrong thing to this giant of a man. She works nights at the laundry down on Fourth Street. But she owes money, bad money, to Darren Croft. I heard her crying on the phone in the back alley last week. Croft is threatening to take what she owes out of her hide.
They live over at the Starlight Motel, room 114. Just just please leave them be. The name Darren Croft sent a dark ripple through J’s mind. Croft was a bottomfeeding lone shark, a man who prayed on the desperate and the weak. He wasn’t affiliated with any club. He was an independent parasite known for his cruelty to women who couldn’t pay him back.
Jon didn’t say another word. He turned on his heel and strode out of the diner. Wrench. Jon barked as he threw his leg over the Harley. Yeah, boss. We’re taking a detour. The Starlight Motel. We got to sit down with the cartel guys in an hour. John, we don’t have time for a detour. Jon fired up his engine. The massive twin cylinders roaring to life.
He looked wrenched dead in the eye. And Wrench saw something he hadn’t seen in Jon for nearly a decade. humanity mixed with an absolutely terrifying protective rage. The cartel can wait. Jon growled over the noise of the exhaust. I have a debt to repay. The Starlight Motel was a rotting husk of a building on the edge of town, a place where dreams went to die and desperate people went to hide.
The neon sign buzzed ominously, missing several letters so that it simply read s a r i ht. Inside room 114, the air was thick and stale, smelling of cheap bleach and old cigarettes. Abigail was frantically packing a battered canvas duffel bag. She was throwing Khloe’s clothes, a few worn, stuffed animals, and whatever non-p perishable food they had into the bag.
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