Echoes on Route 66

The bell above the diner door jingled with an obnoxious, cheerful chime as Grizz pushed it open and stepped out onto the sun-baked concrete porch.

The heat of the Arizona afternoon hit him like an open oven door, but he didn't feel it. His blood was roaring in his ears, drowning out the hum of the highway and the distant drone of an eighteen-wheeler shifting gears on the interstate.

He crossed the cracked asphalt of the parking lot, his long stride eating up the distance between the diner and the faded blue Ford pickup. His heart hammered against his ribs with a frantic rhythm he hadn't felt since he was twenty years old, running from federal agents and rival syndicates across the state line.

As he reached the passenger side, he noticed the window was rolled down an inch. The scent drifted out—vanilla tobacco and rain.

The exact brand of rolling tobacco Elena used to buy in small paper pouches from the station in Flagstaff.

Grizz gripped the rusted metal door handle, his knuckles whitening, and pulled it open.

"Elena," he said, his voice cracking on the syllable.

The woman in the driver’s seat froze. She had been massaging her temples with long, slender fingers, her dark blonde hair pulled back in a messy clip, a few loose strands clinging to the sweat on the back of her neck. Slowly, she lifted her head and turned to look at him.

The breath rushed out of Grizz's lungs as if he’d been hit by a baseball bat.

It wasn't a ghost. It was her. Older, tired lines etched faintly around the corners of her amber-brown eyes, a small scar slicing through her left eyebrow from the night of the warehouse ambush twelve years ago, but unmistakably, undeniably Elena.

She stared at him, her mouth parting in a soundless gasp. The color drained from her face until she looked as pale as chalk.

"Jaxson?" she whispered, the name catching in her throat like dry cotton. "No... no, you're... you're dead. I saw the casualty report. The club said..."

"The club lied," Grizz rasped, his hand gripping the edge of the truck door so hard the metal groaned in protest. He leaned into the cab, his dark eyes searching every inch of her face, desperate to prove to his own brain that he wasn't hallucinating. "They told me you died in that car fire outside Albuquerque. They said there was nothing left."

Elena let out a sharp, ragged laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. "They didn't want us to find each other, Jax. Don't you see? The syndicate... your old commanders... they traded my silence for your life. They told me if I ever came back, if I ever let you know I survived, they would finish the job on you."

Grizz felt a cold, lethal fury ignite deep in his gut—a darkness he had spent the last decade trying to bury under whiskey and engine oil.

Before he could answer, the diner door banged open behind him. Tank and Road came jogging across the asphalt, their heavy boots kicking up dust, stopping short when they saw Elena sitting in the cab.

Tank pulled off his sunglasses, his jaw dropping so low it almost hit his chest. "Holy mother of... El? Is that really you?"

Elena lowered her hands, looking past Grizz at the two massive bikers who had once guarded her like a sister. A bittersweet smile touched her lips, even as fresh tears tracked down her cheeks.