I wasn't going to sit in this diner like a cornered rat, waiting for a bottle of kerosene to crash through our front window while my father slept upstairs.
I went to my closet and pulled out my old tactical vest, a heavy black nylon rig, and a pair of leather gloves, my movements deliberate and calm.
I didn't have my military-issued weapon, but I had my father's old Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol, a heavy piece of steel that had seen combat in Hue City.
I loaded a fresh magazine into the grip, racked the slide to chamber a round, and slipped the weapon into the holster at my lower back.
I checked on my father one last time, ensuring he was deeply asleep, before slipping out the back door into the pouring rain.
The old tannery was three miles outside of town, a sprawling, rusted ruin of corrugated metal and rotting wood that sat on the edge of the river.
I rode my old Triumph motorcycle through the back roads, keeping the headlight off, using the occasional flash of lightning to guide my way through the mud.
I parked the bike a quarter-mile away in a thicket of pine trees, approaching the tannery on foot, moving silently through the tall grass like a ghost.
The old building was ablaze with light, several motorcycles parked out front under a sagging awning, the sound of loud rock music and laughter drifting through the rain.
I crept around to the back of the building, finding a rusted fire escape door that had been left slightly ajar to let out the smell of stale beer and weed.
I slipped inside, my boots making no sound on the grease-stained concrete floor of what used to be the main processing room.
Through a crack in the wooden partition wall, I could see the main hangout area, where ten or twelve bikers were drinking and playing pool.
Jax was there, sitting at a scarred wooden table in the corner, a bottle of whiskey in front of him, his leather vest thrown over the back of his chair.
But my eyes didn't stay on him; they went straight to the silver cross of the Silver Star lying on the table next to his glass, its ribbon stained with dirt.
I felt a surge of pure, lethal adrenaline, my hand reaching for the Colt at my back as I prepared to breach the room and take what belonged to my family.
But before I could make my move, the heavy front door of the tannery swung open, and a man in a wet yellow rain slicker stepped into the room.
He pulled back his hood to reveal the pale, sweating face of Sheriff Raymond Vance, his gold badge gleaming in the dim light of the bar.
"Jax!" Raymond shouted, his voice cutting through the loud music. "Where is the medal? Where is the key?"
Jax looked up, a slow, mocking grin spreading across his face as he picked up the Silver Star and jingled it in his hand.
"Relax, Sheriff," Jax laughed. "I got it right here. The old man didn't even know what he was holding."
"Give it to me," Raymond demanded, stepping forward, his hand resting on the butt of his service weapon. "Now. Marcus knows. He found the bank statements."
Jax’s smile vanished, his eyes narrowing as he stood up from the table, the massive bulk of his body casting a long, dark shadow across the floor.