Chapter 7 - THE MIDNIGHT STANDOFF
The air on the upper catwalks was boiling hot, thick with toxic black smoke from the burning fuel tank. Jax climbed the metal rungs of the ladder two at a time, his boots clanging against the iron structure. His lungs burned, but the image of Leo’s hopeful face kept him moving.
He reached the top walkway just as Marcus Vance reached the dead end of the platform. The fire escape ladder behind Marcus had rusted away years ago, leaving him trapped fifty feet above the concrete courtyard with a wall of fire behind him and Jax Teller in front of him.
Marcus turned around, his silver-plated revolver empty, clicking uselessly as he pulled the trigger. Realizing he was out of ammunition, he threw the gun at Jax’s head. Jax ducked, the heavy metal weapon whistling past his ear.
With a desperate, animalistic roar, Marcus drew a wicked, serrated combat knife from his boot and lunged forward.
Jax didn't fire his gun. He threw it aside, wanting to feel the impact of his own knuckles against the man who had terrified his family. He parried Marcus’s first wild slash, the blade slicing through the leather of his vest but missing the flesh beneath.
Jax countered with a brutal right cross that caught Marcus squarely on the cheekbone, sending the cartel boss staggering against the rusted safety railing. Marcus spat blood and lunged again, driving his shoulder into Jax’s midsection. Both men went down onto the grated metal floor, tumbling over each other in a frantic struggle for control of the knife.
Marcus was heavier, fueled by the manic adrenaline of a trapped predator. He managed to pin Jax’s left arm down, forcing the jagged blade down toward Jax’s throat.
"You’re nothing but a white-trash biker, Teller!" Marcus hissed, his face inches from Jax’s, his breath smelling of expensive cigars and cheap whiskey. "Your boy is going to grow up an orphan!"
Jax’s muscles strained against the descending blade. The metal tip was a fraction of an inch from his jugular. Through the grate of the catwalk, he could see down into the courtyard. The gunfire was dying down; his brothers had neutralized the remaining Iron Skulls. Clara was safe below, looking up through the smoke with her hands pressed against her mouth.
I have a son, Jax thought. I am not dying in the dirt.
With a sudden, violent surge of strength, Jax brought his knee up into Marcus’s tailbone. The sudden pain broke Marcus’s posture for a fraction of a second. Jax used the opening to slam his forehead forward, delivering a devastating headbutt that broke Marcus’s nose in a spray of crimson.
The knife slipped from Marcus’s grip, clattering through the metal grate and falling into the darkness below. Jax scrambled to his feet, grabbed Marcus by the collar of his spiked jacket, and slammed him repeatedly against the rusted iron railing.
The old metal groaned under the impact. Snapping rivets popped like firecrackers.
"This is for Clara," Jax growled, delivering a massive left hook.
"This is for my club," he added, a right hook fracturing Marcus’s jaw.
"And this," Jax whispered, his voice cold as ice as he lifted Marcus off his feet by his belt and collar, "is for my son."
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With a final, desperate heave, Jax launched Marcus Vance over the broken safety railing. The cartel leader didn't even scream as he plummeted fifty feet through the smoky air, crashing through the roof of a rusted generator shed below. The impact was deafening, followed by a sudden, absolute silence.
The leader of the Iron Skulls was gone. The war was over.
