Chapter 7 - THE ROAD TO BLACKWOOD
Jonah didn't turn his head to look directly at the black SUV across the highway. He kept his eyes fixed on his motorcycle, a massive, customized matte-black cruiser equipped with heavy leather saddlebags and a raised rear passenger backrest.
"Let 'em watch," Jonah growled quietly. "They're too late anyway."
He walked Emma over to his bike, lifting her effortlessly by her waist and placing her onto the padded rear seat. He took her faded maroon backpack, unbuckled the straps, and secured it tightly inside his left saddlebag alongside his heavy mechanical tool roll.
"Hold onto my vest straps, Emma," Jonah said, adjusting her small hands so her fingers gripped the heavy leather seams at his waist. "And don't let go until I tell you to."
"I won't," Emma said, her small knees gripping the sides of the rear seat securely.
Russell fired up his engine first. The heavy V-twin motor roared to life with a deep, guttural thrum that shook the loose gravel beneath his tires. One by one, the other four bikes started up, their combined exhaust notes reverberating off the diner's metal siding like thunder rolling across the valley.
Jonah swung his long leg over his bike, settling his heavy frame onto the leather seat. He turned the key, and his motor roared into a deep, rhythmic rumble that swallowed the ambient noise of the highway.
Across the road, the black SUV pulled out from the shoulder, its tires kicking up mud as it swung around in a tight U-turn, aligning itself fifty yards behind the group of motorcycles.
Jonah caught the vehicle's movement in his chrome side mirror. A cold, dark smile touched the corner of his lips under his stubble.
He squeezed the clutch, kicked the gear shift down into first with a sharp metallic clunk, and twisted the throttle.
The six motorcycles pulled out of the Briar Creek Diner parking lot in a tight, protective V-formation, with Jonah riding lead and carrying Emma in the center of the pocket. They surged onto Route 42, their black frames carving through the rising mist as they headed west toward the dark timber slopes of Blackwood Ridge.
Behind them, the black SUV accelerated, maintaining a fixed distance on the winding, two-lane highway.
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As the trees closed in around the pavement, blocking out the daylight under a thick canopy of old-growth pines, Jonah reached down with his right hand. His thumb pressed against the heavy leather pocket of his vest, feeling the hard, distinct outline of the small brass key with the number 408 stamped into its metal face.
Twelve years of lies were unraveling with every mile of blacktop passing beneath his tires.
