The SUV ate pavement under its wheels, sirens off, every man in the car locked tight with urgency. Jax rode in the passenger seat, eyes fixed out the windshield like he could will the road to bend faster. Priest’s hand was white-knuckled on his pistol, whispering under his breath the same line he always muttered before bullets flew: “Guide my hands, not my fear.”
They turned onto chief Whitford’s street just as smoke bloomed black against the blue sky.
“No,” Jax whispered. His gut dropped like a stone. “No, no, no.”
The tires screeched. They spilled out, sprinting. Neighbors screamed from lawns, cell phones already up, a fire truck in the distance still too far. The Whitford house was ablaze, flames roaring through the windows like a living animal.
Jax didn’t wait for protocol. He char
