CHAPTER 2 The Window Shattered
CHAPTER 2
The Window Shattered
Outside, the two bikers from pump number six quietly took their positions.
Big Mike, the massive mechanic whose gray beard glowed beneath the harsh neon lights, stood behind the SUV with his arms folded across a chest as broad as a refrigerator. His sheer presence made the four-ton Lincoln Navigator seem strangely small.
On the passenger side stood Jax.
Only a few feet separated him from my window.
Through the glass, I could clearly see the jagged scar running along his jaw—a permanent reminder of a childhood spent fighting to survive in the foster care system.
His fists stayed buried in the pockets of his leather vest, but every muscle in his body was tense.
Ready.
He wasn't watching Derek.
He was watching me.
His eyes lingered on the dark bruises already forming around my wrist where Derek's fingers had dug into my skin.
Preacher leaned closer until his face nearly filled the narrow opening of the driver's window.
The smell of chewing tobacco, rain-soaked denim, and old motor oil drifted into the luxury SUV, replacing the artificial scent of leather and expensive cologne.
"I don't like repeating myself, son," Preacher said.
His voice wasn't loud.
It carried the deep, steady rumble of a diesel engine idling inside an empty garage.
"Turn off the engine."
"Step outside."
"Let's have ourselves a conversation about why your wife is covered in gravel from this parking lot."
Derek swallowed hard.
His Adam's apple bobbed beneath his perfectly knotted silk tie.
Slowly, his right hand slid toward the phone resting in the center console.
"I'm calling the Highway Patrol," he announced, forcing confidence back into his voice.
"I know people in the county prosecutor's office."
"You're blocking a public roadway."
"This is unlawful detention."
"You're threatening my family."
"Family?"
The single word rolled out of Preacher's mouth like a curse.
He didn't wait for Derek to grab the phone.
With shocking speed for a man his size, Preacher jammed his thick fingers into the two-inch opening at the top of the driver's window.
The sound that followed made my heart stop.
A violent screech of twisting metal.
Plastic cracking.
The grinding scream of the window regulator tearing apart.
Then—
CRACK!
The reinforced safety glass didn't explode inward.
Instead, thousands of tiny fractures raced across the entire window in an instant, turning it milky white.
Derek screamed, throwing both arms over his face as glittering fragments rained across his expensive slacks.
Before he could recover—
Preacher reached through the broken window.
Unlocked the door.
And yanked it open with one powerful pull.
Humid night air flooded into the SUV.
The prison door had opened.
"Out."
Preacher grabbed Derek by the front of his three-hundred-dollar suit jacket.
"Let go of me!"
"This is assault!" Derek shouted, flailing wildly as he tried to cling to the steering wheel.
Years in a luxury gym had built impressive muscles.
But they meant nothing against the raw strength of a former Marine who had spent his youth carrying wounded soldiers through combat zones.
With one smooth, brutal motion, Preacher ripped Derek from the driver's seat.
His polished leather shoes slipped across the floor mat.
An instant later—
THUD!
His knees slammed into the oil-stained pavement beside pump number two.
The sickening impact echoed across the empty gas station.
"Derek!"
The cry escaped before I could stop it.
Years of conditioning.
Years of believing it was my job to protect him.
Yet somewhere deep inside me...
A colder part of my soul felt something else.
Relief.
"Stay right where you are, ma'am."
The gentle voice came from beside my door.
The passenger door slowly opened.
An older man stood there.
He looked to be around sixty, wearing wire-rimmed glasses that seemed oddly out of place beneath the heavy Savage Reapers leather vest covering his shoulders.
His gray hair was clipped short in an old military style.
In his left hand rested a small black medical bag.
"My name's Calvin Miller," he said with a calm Midwestern drawl.
"Everyone around here calls me Doc."
"I was a combat medic before I started patching up these hard-headed bikers."
A warm smile softened his weathered face.
"Would you mind if I took a quick look at you?"
Instinctively, I shrank deeper into the passenger seat, wrapping both arms around my belly.
"I..."
"I'm fine."
"We were just arguing."
"We just need to go home."
Doc didn't step any closer.
He stayed outside the open door, one hand resting casually on the frame, making sure I never felt cornered.
Instead, he reached into his pocket.
He unwrapped a small peppermint candy and held it out to me.
"Stress can make your blood sugar crash," he said gently.
"And when you're carrying a passenger that size..."
He nodded toward my belly.
"...you need every bit of energy you can get."
His eyes drifted to my torn maternity leggings.
Blood seeped slowly through the ripped fabric covering my knees.
Then he looked at my swollen wrist.
Finally, he met my eyes.
"Sweetheart..."
He spoke so softly I almost cried.
May you like
"That doesn't look like an argument."
"It looks like a long chain of terrible decisions made by a man who never deserved what he had."
