Revving my bike loudly, Crash turns his head my way, and I subtly nod behind us, and his posture stiffens as he nods back in understanding, just as the van picks up speed and I know Blaze has, too.
Dad looks my way. I shake my head. He also stiffens but picks up his speed to follow the van listening to his VP and not his son because that van is more important right now. I slow down slightly, Crash does the same.
We’re on a backroad, no pedestrians, which will change in around five miles, so now is the time, I guess.
Fuck Clark is going to kill me if I get hurt.
Revving my bike, I quickly brake and turn the handlebars, skidding in a half-circle and facing off with the truck, hoping to distract them until Blade can arrive.
Crash follows suit and I wheelspin on the spot just as a gunshot goes off. I quickly grab my gun from my holster and swerve as the bullet skims my shoulder, making me grit my teeth.
Keeping one hand on the bike, I aim my gun at the truck’s tire and fire. Crash does the same. The left front tire pops, and the truck swerves, but they don’t stop. Instead, the truck swerves and drives toward us.
Son of a…
Instead of backing away, I gun the engine and drive straight for them, keeping my gun aimed at their vehicle. I fire another shot at the windshield, fucking hoping it isn’t bulletproof.
The window shatters, proving the idiots are amateurs and the truck swerves again, this time directly toward Crash.
Fuck.
He quickly moves out of the way and comes up next to me and I swallow the fear that rushes through me. Even knowing my wife still isn’t one hundred percent with the fucker, she doesn’t want to lose him, and neither do I.
I give him a quick glance—he nods, confirming he’s good just as the truck zips past us. I twirl my finger in the air, brake hard, and turn my handlebars. My foot skims the asphalt as I turn back to find the truck already coming our way.
A skinny fucker is at the helm, looking scared as he grips the steering wheel tightly while some stocky guy in the passenger seat has his gun out of the window. The Charger tattoo symbol is as clear as day on the side of his face.
Why in the fuck would he get it tattooed on his face?
Did he lose a bet?
Wait, that shouldn’t be my main fucking focus right now…
I shake my head and rev towards the fuckers, my wheels spinning as I race at them. I lift my gun, trying to keep control of the bike—I don't need to wipe out— and I fire three rounds.
One bullet hits the skinny guy's arm, making him swerve. The other two bullets strike the stocky fucker in the chest but before he goes down, though, he manages to fire off three shots of his own.
One bullet skims my left leg, the other hits the front of my bike while the third… Fuck.
I choke as an overbearing, hot, searing pain hits my chest, and I swerve losing control of my bike. Crash’s “Trick!” just hits my ears as I hit the ground hard and land with a thump, and I groan as my bike skids past me.
Son of a bitch.
Coughing in pain, I look ahead of me and I notice the truck is on its roof, both men not moving, the skinny one half through the windshield, not far from where I’ve landed, as Crash gently moves me onto my back, and I cough again as the pain gets worse then I groan, my chest burning making it difficult to breathe.
Fuck me.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Crash curses as he gently removes my helmet, and I squeeze my eyes tight as I choke, “Fuck, your sister is going to kill me…”
“Not if the bullet does first!” he snaps as he presses something against my chest, and I groan as the searing pain makes it difficult to breathe even more.
Fuck that hurts, like a lot.
“What fucking happened?!” I hear Psycho shout and I blink then blink again seeing the large fucker running my way and Ichoke, “Well, I killed the stocky fucker w-who clearly lost a bet but not before he shot three rounds at me…”
“Bullet to the chest,” Crash snaps just as I choke, “He did lose the bet, right? B-because surely he-he wasn’t stupid e-enough to tat his crest over half his face?”
“Will you forget the fucking Charger!” Crash snaps, and I squeeze my eyes tight.
