Chapter 6: The Mechanic Yard
The neon sign of Miller's Retrofit salvage yard buzzed and flickered in the freezing mist, casting a sickly greenish glow over stacks of rusted car doors, crushed truck chassis, and towering pyramids of bald tires. The chain-link gate was pulled halfway across the entrance, secured with a heavy brass padlock and a rusted iron chain. Inside the barbed wire perimeter, a massive Doberman paced back and forth along the frozen dirt path, its low, guttural growl vibrating in the damp air as it caught my scent.
I didn't turn back. I grabbed the cold wire of the fence, jammed my scuffed sneakers into the diamond-shaped links, and hauled myself upward, ignoring the sharp bite of the metal against my palms. I dropped down onto the gravel on the other side, the dog lunging forward instantly, barking furiously and snapping its jaws just inches from my boots. I backed away slowly, keeping my eyes locked on the animal's glowing yellow eyes, until a sharp whistle cut through the din from the dark interior of the corrugated metal workshop.
"Cut it out, Diesel! Back in the pen!"
The dog whined softly, cast one last suspicious glance in my direction, and trotted off toward the back corner of the yard. A heavy metal door groaned on its hinges, and a tall figure stepped out into the spill of yellow light pouring from the garage. It wasn't Jax. It was an older man with a face like cured leather, a grease-stained canvas jumpsuit, and a thick gray beard that reached down to his chest. He was wiping his hands on a filthy shop rag, his sharp eyes narrowing as he peered through the mist at me.
"We're closed, kid," the man barked, his voice gravelly and impatient. "And this ain't a playground. You got no business wandering around a salvage yard past nine o'clock."
"Are you Red?" I asked, my voice steady despite the cold and the pounding of my heart. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the heavy manila envelope Sarah had given me, holding it out toward him like a shield. "Sarah sent me. My mom. She said you owe her a favor."
The old mechanic froze mid-wipe. The rag slipped from his fingers, falling unheeded onto the frozen gravel. He took two slow steps forward, the light catching his face and revealing a deep, jagged scar running from his ear down to his collarbone. He stared at the envelope in my hand, then slowly raised his eyes to look at my face, studying the shape of my jaw, the hazel color of my eyes, and the messy light brown hair plastered to my forehead by the mist.
"Sarah?" he whispered, the hardness vanishing from his voice, replaced by a sudden, heavy wave of dread. "Sarah Miller? The last time I saw her, she was packing a suitcase and heading out of state before Jax went off the rails. What are you doing here, boy? Where is she?"
"She's sick," I said, my voice finally breaking as the cold and the fear caught up with me. "She's bleeding, and she won't let me call an ambulance. She told me to find you. She said you'd know what to do."
Red didn't ask any more questions. He snatched the envelope from my hand, ripped the flap open, and pulled out a folded sheaf of yellowed paper and a faded Polaroid. He didn't even look at the photo; his eyes scanned the handwritten note inside the envelope, his face growing paler by the second. He muttered a harsh curse under his breath, balled the paper up in his massive fist, and looked back at me with a look of grim determination.
"She's still living in that shack behind the laundromat?" he demanded.
I nodded mutely.
"Damn it, girl," Red muttered, shaking his head. He turned back toward the open door of the workshop and yelled over his shoulder. "Jax! Get your ass out here right now! We got a situation!"
From the dark shadows of the parts room, the heavy, measured footsteps of boots on concrete echoed through the garage. A moment later, Jax stepped into the light. He wasn't wearing his leather vest tonight; he had on a heavy flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing thick forearms covered in intricate, faded ink. His dark hair was tied back in a messy knot, and his beard looked unkempt. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me standing beside Red in the center of the garage.
"What's the kid doing here?" Jax growled, his voice dropping an octave as he crossed his arms over his chest, trying to put on the tough, unbothered facade I had seen in the diner. "I told him to stay away from here, Red. I ain't got time for this."
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"Shut up, Jax, and look at the boy," Red snapped, thrusting the crumpled note into Jax's chest. "It's Sarah. She's down at the shack behind the laundromat, coughing up blood and refusing a hospital. She sent the boy to me because she knew you wouldn't lift a finger unless someone forced you to."
Jax stared at Red, then slowly looked down at the note in his hand. The color drained from his face beneath his weathered skin. His jaw tightened so hard I could see the muscle ticking beneath his beard. He looked up at me, his eyes wide and dark, filled with a sudden, panicked realization that he couldn't run away from anymore.
