Chapter 4: Declaration of War

Chapter 4: Declaration of War

Jax didn’t sleep. The ghost of David ‘Deadeye’ Connolly sat with him through the night, a silent, mournful vigil. But grief, Jax knew, could be a paralyzing fog or a whetstone. He had spent years lost in the fog after Iraq. This time, he chose the stone. He let the pain of his friend’s death sharpen the edges of his resolve until it was razor-thin and ice-cold. He wasn't just grieving a friend anymore; he was honoring him by refusing to be a victim. In the quiet of his apartment, he dismantled and cleaned his service pistol, the familiar, methodical process a meditation on purpose and intent. The war had already been declared yesterday in the shop; now came the logistics.

His phone rang shortly after 8 AM. The caller ID read ‘Sterling Automotive.’

“Jax, it’s Peter.” The man’s voice was slick with false magnanimity, the tone of a king granting a pardon. “Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. Things were… tense. Why don’t you come by the office? I think we can work something out.”

Jax knew it wasn’t an apology. It was a summons. Peter needed to reassert his dominance, to put the big, quiet mechanic firmly back in his place. It was exactly what he was hoping for.

“I’ll be there in twenty,” Jax said, his voice level.

He walked into the main office to find Peter and Karen arranged like a low-rent royal court. Peter sat behind his oversized mahogany desk, leaning back in his chair with an air of practiced authority. Karen stood beside him, a hand resting proprietarily on his shoulder, her smirk a permanent fixture.

“Jax, have a seat,” Peter said, gesturing to the small, uncomfortable chair opposite the desk. Jax remained standing, a silent refusal that immediately set Peter on edge.

Peter cleared his throat, his composure faltering for a second before he barrelled on. “Look, Karen and I have been talking. What happened yesterday… it was unprofessional. On your part. Walking out like that. But I’m a charitable man. I believe in second chances.”

Jax just watched him, his face impassive, letting the man talk himself into a deeper hole.

“So, we’re not going to fire you,” Peter continued, puffing out his chest. “Despite your insubordination. Instead, we’re putting you on a probationary period. Six months. It’s standard procedure.”

Karen’s smirk widened. This was her handiwork.

“During this probation,” Peter said, picking up a piece of paper from his desk, “your pay will be adjusted to reflect your trainee status. We’ll cut it in half. Three hundred a week. Flat.”

It was so ludicrous, so grotesquely unfair, that it was almost masterful. They had taken his eighty-hour week, paid him for what amounted to twenty-four, and were now cutting that insulting figure in half again.

Peter, mistaking Jax’s silence for shock and despair, leaned forward, his voice softening into a mask of faux sympathy. “I know things can be tough. I remember from your application… you’re a veteran, right? Army?”

Jax didn’t answer. He didn't have to.

“I get it,” Peter said, shaking his head with theatrical pity. “It can be hard for you guys to… adjust. To a normal workplace. With rules and authority. I imagine that little bit of disability pay from the government doesn’t go very far.” He pushed the paper across the desk. “So I’m doing you a favor. Think of this as a helping hand. A way to keep a struggling disabled veteran off the streets. Just sign this, and we can forget this whole unpleasantness.”

There it was. The final nail. The ultimate miscalculation. They saw a broken-down grease monkey, a charity case too desperate and damaged to fight back. They saw a man they could exploit and humiliate, then pat themselves on the back for their own generosity. They had no idea they had just handed him the perfect, legally documented weapon.

A sound started in Jax’s chest. It was low at first, a deep rumble. Then it grew, spilling from his lips not as a shout of rage, but as a laugh. It was a cold, dark, predatory sound, utterly devoid of humor. It was the laugh of a wolf watching a rabbit meticulously build a trap for itself.

The sound echoed in the small office. The color drained from Peter’s face. Karen’s smirk vanished, replaced by a flicker of genuine fear. They had expected pleading, anger, desperation. They had not expected this chilling amusement.

Jax leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the polished mahogany desk. The wood creaked under his weight. He looked Peter Sterling directly in the eye, the calm intensity of his gaze pinning the man to his chair.

“I accept your terms,” Jax said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of a death sentence.

He turned and walked out, leaving the probationary agreement sitting unsigned on the desk. He didn't need to sign it. Their offer, verbal and written, was enough.

He got into his old pickup truck, the engine turning over with a healthy roar he’d tuned himself. The cold amusement on his face was gone, replaced by a mask of pure, unadulterated purpose. He pulled out his phone, but he didn’t search for local lawyers. He scrolled to a contact buried deep in his list, a name he hadn’t needed in years. He pressed the call button.

Miles away, in a gleaming high-rise office overlooking a bustling city, Marcus ‘Gunner’ Kane was eviscerating a corporate attorney over a speakerphone. He was a man in his forties, coiled energy contained within an impeccable suit. His head was shaved, his goatee was sharp, and his eyes had the piercing intensity of a hawk. He moved with an economy of motion that spoke of his past as a Marine Force Recon officer.

“...and if you think for one second that your client’s non-compete clause will survive a summary judgment, you’re even dumber than your haircut suggests. Send me a real offer, or my next call is to the SEC. Your choice.” He ended the call without waiting for a reply.

His assistant buzzed him. “Mr. Kane, there’s a call for you on your private line. A Mr. Ryder.”

Gunner’s entire posture changed. The corporate shark vanished, replaced by something sharper, more personal. “Put him through, Holly.”

He picked up the receiver. “Ryder? Damn, son. It’s been a while. You still breaking things for a living?”

“Something like that,” Jax’s voice came through the line, calm and steady. “I need a lawyer, Gunner.”

Gunner leaned back in his chair, all business. “What happened?”

Jax laid it out with clinical precision. The initial handshake deal. The new wife. The unilateral change to a fraudulent hourly system. The eighty-hour week for six hundred dollars. The walkout. And finally, the probation. He relayed Peter’s exact words: “a helping hand for a struggling disabled veteran.”

There was a dead silence on the other end of the line. Gunner Kane had built a career—a crusade—on destroying bullies who exploited the working class, but there was a special place in his hell for those who preyed on veterans. He saw them not just as clients, but as brothers-in-arms who needed air support.

“Did they give you anything in writing, Jax?” Gunner’s voice was dangerously quiet.

“They drew up a probationary agreement,” Jax said. “Pay cut in half. I left it on his desk.”

A slow, predatory smile spread across Gunner’s face. “Good. Perfect. Don’t sign it. Don’t even touch it. Let them document their own crime. Let them think they have you right where they want you.” He stood up, pacing his office like a caged predator.

“This isn’t a simple wage dispute anymore, Ryder. This is punitive. They wanted to humiliate you. They used your service against you.”

“I know,” Jax said.

“So we’re not just going to sue them for back pay,” Gunner said, his voice filled with the promise of righteous retribution. “We are going to conduct a full-scale, scorched-earth campaign. We will dismantle their entire pathetic little empire, piece by piece. They declared war, Jax. It’s time we showed them how it’s fought.”