He walked slowly toward our booth, unlatching the leather retention strap on his holster. The loud snap echoed in the quiet diner.
“Well now,” Deputy Rollins drawled, stopping at the edge of our table. He looked down at Peter, who had completely frozen, his eyes wide with renewed terror. “Looks like I found the runaway. George Miller called the dispatch about twenty minutes ago. Said a biker violently assaulted him at the crossroads and kidnapped his foster son.”
Foster son. Not grandson. George couldn’t even keep his own lies straight on the dispatch call.
“Is that so?” I asked, leaning back against the vinyl booth, casually resting my right hand near my lap, close to my hip. “That’s a heavy accusation. Because from where I was standing, George was about to beat this boy to death with a bullwhip.”
Rollins chuckled, shaking his head slowly. “George is a tough man, raises tough kids. Sometimes they need a firm hand. The boy’s a ward of the state, placed in Mr. Miller’s lawful custody. What you did out there was felony kidnapping.”
“If he’s a ward of the state, then you won’t mind calling Child Protective Services down here to do a welfare check,” I countered calmly, staring up at Rollins. “I’ll gladly hand him over to a social worker. Let them look at the chemical burns on this kid’s hands.”
Rollins’s smile vanished completely. The atmosphere in the diner immediately grew freezing cold. His hand tightened around his duty belt.
“You’re not in a position to negotiate, drifter,” Rollins said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “Stand up. Put your hands behind your back. I’m taking the boy, and you’re going to jail.”
I looked at the red clay on his boots. Then I looked at Peter. The boy was staring at Rollins, but it wasn’t just fear in his eyes. It was hopeless recognition. Rollins wasn’t here as a cop; he was here as George’s cleanup crew. If I handed Peter over to this man, the boy would be dead before sundown.
I had lost my younger brother when I was sixteen. I ran from our abusive father and left him behind. I spent the next twenty years punishing myself, driving aimlessly across the country trying to outrun a guilt that never faded. I swore a long time ago I would never walk away from a kid who needed me. Not again.
“Deputy,” I said slowly, sliding my feet firmly onto the floor beneath the table. “I don’t think you’re going to take anyone today.”
With explosive speed, I kicked the heavy wooden diner table straight up and forward. It slammed violently into Rollins’s midsection, pinning him briefly against the opposite booth. The hot coffee mug spilled across the floor, shattering loudly.
“Run!” I yelled to Peter.
The kid didn’t hesitate. He scrambled out of the booth, bolting toward the back hallway.
Rollins grunted in pain, shoving the heavy table off his waist and drawing his weapon. He aimed blindly through the diner, shouting a command to halt, but I was already moving. I grabbed the heavy glass ketchup bottle from the neighboring table and hurled it directly at his head. Rollins ducked, the bottle smashing against the wall behind him, showering him in thick red sauce and glass.
It bought me exactly three seconds.
I lunged into the back hallway, slamming the heavy wooden swing doors shut behind me. I caught up to Peter at the back exit, scooped him up under my arm, and burst through the door into the blinding afternoon sun.
I dropped Peter next to the bike, ripped the keys from my pocket, and jammed them into the ignition.
“Helmet on, quick!” I ordered, throwing my leg over the seat. Peter scrambled on behind me. The heavy engine barked to life just as the back door of the diner kicked open. Rollins stood in the frame, weapon drawn.
I kicked down into first gear, popped the clutch, and dumped the throttle. The massive rear tire broke traction, kicking up a rooster tail of gravel directly into Rollins’s face. He fired one shot, the sharp crack echoing loudly, but the bullet sparked harmlessly against the asphalt to our left.
We tore out of the alleyway, hitting the main road at seventy miles an hour, abandoning my saddlebags and any semblance of a quiet life. I was officially a fugitive.
We rode hard for almost an hour, diving deep into the sprawling, neglected maze of rural county backroads. My heart pounded against my ribs, the metallic scent of adrenaline sharp in my nose. I knew the police would have my plates by now. Rollins would initiate an Amber Alert. Every cop in a fifty-mile radius would be looking for a solitary biker with a kid. We needed to get off the road immediately.
I spotted a crumbling, long-abandoned barn set far back off a dirt road, partially hidden by an overgrowth of dead oak trees. I killed the engine a hundred yards out, letting the bike coast silently into the dense brush. We pushed the heavy motorcycle through the tall weeds, finally resting it deep within the shadows of the rotting barn structure.
I sat heavily against the wooden wall, sliding down to the dirt floor. My breath came heavy and fast. I looked at Peter. He was sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest, trembling in the fading afternoon light.
“Well,” I exhaled slowly. “That didn’t go exactly as planned.”
I reached into my inner jacket pocket and pulled out the muddy dog tag. THOMAS VANCE.