Page 13 of Ranger’s Protection

"Graham?" Delilah's voice is small from the footwell.

"Still here."

"Are we going to die?"

"No," I tell her. And mean it. "Backup is twelve minutes out. All I have to do is keep us ahead of them until then. I've done harder things."

"Like what?"

"Like extracting three civilians from a compound with fifteen hostiles between us and the extraction point. Like driving a supply convoy through an active minefield."

She makes a sound that might be a laugh. Might be a sob. Hard to tell.

"You're really good at this, aren't you?" she says. "The tactical stuff."

"It's what I do. What I've always done. See the threats before they arrive. Plan three moves ahead. Keep people alive."

"Have you ever failed?"

I hate that question.

"Yes," I admit. "Once. Afghanistan. Lost a friend because I didn't see the IED in time. Stepped right past it. He didn't."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too. But I learned from it. Made sure it never happened again. That's all you can do. Learn, adapt, survive."

The bikes are closing the gap. Down to two hundred yards now. They're testing my response time, seeing how I react to pressure. I don't react. Just maintain speed and watch them in the mirror.

Vale is laughing again in the back seat. "This is where it ends, military boy. Even odds don't favor you when my brothers are this motivated."

"Your brothers are idiots," I say. "They're following a pattern. Staying exactly two hundred yards back. Riding in formation. Probably communicating via headset. Which means they're predictable. And predictable people die."

I see the turnoff for Miller Road ahead. Two miles. Maybe ninety seconds at this speed. The bikes see it too. They accelerate. Trying to close the distance before I can make the turn, probably planning to force me past it or cut me off if I try.

Not happening.

I wait until the last possible second, until they're committed to their acceleration, until they think they know what I'm going to do, and then I hit the brakes.

Not gently. Full pressure. The sedan's anti-lock brakes engage with a stuttering pulse as we decelerate from eighty to forty in under three seconds. Delilah yelps from the footwell. Vale slams forward against his seatbelt.

The bikes shoot past us, their riders' heads turning in surprise as they realize I'm no longer in front of them.

I crank the wheel hard right and take the Miller Road turnoff at forty-five, the sedan's tires screaming but holding. The bikes are already braking, trying to turn around, but they've got momentum and anger working against them.

Gives me maybe twenty seconds of lead time.

I'll take it.

"You can sit up now," I tell Delilah. "But stay buckled."

She climbs back into the seat, fumbling with her seatbelt, her face pale but determined. "That was—"

"Reckless," I finish. "But effective."

"I was going to say terrifying."

"That too."