Chapter 8 - THE OLD TIMBER ROAD
The asphalt of Route 42 gave way to a narrow, rutted county road covered in crushed limestone and wet pine needles. The heavy V-twin engines dropped their pitch to a low, growling crawl as the six motorcycles navigated the steep incline leading up into Blackwood Ridge.
Dense forest banked the road on both sides. Fallen autumn leaves blew across the track in swirling gusts of red and brown.
Three miles up the winding trail, a leaning wooden mailbox marked with faded reflective numbers—1408—stood beside a narrow dirt driveway that disappeared into a thick grove of hemlock trees.
Jonah pulled his bike onto the dirt path, the tires crunching through wet leaves. He brought the motorcycle to a stop forty yards short of the clearing, cutting his engine. Behind him, the other five bikers killed their ignition switches in unison, allowing the deep silence of the mountain forest to settle back over the trees.
Through the branches ahead, a modest, single-story cabin built from rough-hewn logs sat in a small clearing. The tin roof was covered in green moss, and a small puff of pale smoke rose from the stone chimney.
Parked directly in front of the cabin's porch were two identical late-model black pickup trucks. Their polished paint was splattered with mud along the wheel wells, and their dark-tinted windows reflected the gloomy gray light of the canopy.
Standing near the porch steps were two men wearing heavy canvas jackets, dark trousers, and tactical earpieces wired down into their collars. One of them held a thick leather binder, while the other stood with his arms crossed, leaning casually against the porch railing, blocking the cabin's front door.
On the porch, sitting in an old wooden rocking chair, was a tired-looking woman in her late thirties. She wore a faded flannel shirt wrapped tightly around her shoulders, her brown hair pulled back in a loose braid identical to Emma's. Her face was pale, lined with exhaustion and fear as she kept her arms folded tightly across her chest.
"Mom!" Emma whispered from the back of Jonah's bike, her small fingers tightening against his leather vest.
"Stay quiet, kiddo," Jonah murmured softly, reaching back to pat her small knee. "Russell, stay here with the girl."
May you like
"You got it, Jonah," Russell said, swinging off his bike and standing guard right beside Emma's seat, his heavy frame completely shielding her from view through the trees.
Jonah, Micah, and the three other bikers stepped out from the pine grove, their heavy boots making no sound as they walked up the dirt driveway toward the cabin clearing.
