Chapter 1 - The Golden Hour Trap
The amber light of late afternoon hit Route 9 at a sharp angle, cutting through the pine haze of the Pacific Northwest like liquid brass. Outside The Broken Axle Diner, two men sat at a sun-bleached picnic table. Jax "Grizzly" Vance pulled a strip of crisp bacon through a pool of egg yolk, his leather cut showing the worn colors of the Grim Reapers Motorcycle Club. Beside him sat Knox "Hog" Miller, his bald head gleaming in the backlight, thick arms covered in faded black ink resting heavily on the wood. The air smelled of fried fat, cold diesel, and dry needles from the timberline.
A shadow fell across the end of their table.
She stood illuminated by the low sun—a rim of gold catching the fine silver hairs along her temples. She wore an immaculate beige blazer, her spine straight despite her age, her fingers white-knuckled around the brass clasp of a small handbag. Her eyes were wide, glassy, brimming with a quiet, practiced terror.
"Would you guys pretend to be my sons?" her voice trembled, paper-thin. "Just for one day?"
Jax paused mid-chew. Knox’s dark eyes narrowed under his brow.
"Why?" Jax asked, his gravelly voice dropping an octave. "What happened?"
A tear escaped her lash line, cutting a clean track through the dust on her cheek. "They're trying to take my house."
She looked between them, her chest heaving softly under the tailored beige wool. "They think I'm helpless and alone."
Knox’s jaw flexed. Before Jax could speak, Knox’s heavy palms struck the table with a crack that vibrated up their forearms. He stood up, his massive frame blocking out the sun, looming over her like a dark tower.
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"You are not alone, Mom!" Knox bellowed, his voice carrying down the empty highway.
The old woman let out a wet sob, pressing her hands to her face. But behind her palms, her mouth remained entirely still. Her breath was slow, rhythmic, and cold.
