Page 16 of Ranger’s Protection

"Ranger, it's Judge. We're five minutes out. Where you at?"

"Miller Road, heading east through the industrial park. Three bikes on my tail, getting aggressive. How's your approach?"

"Coming in from the north on Warehouse Drive. If you can lead them to the intersection of Miller and Fifth, we can cut them off."

Graham processes this instantly. "Fifth is two miles ahead. Can you make that intercept?"

"If you can keep them busy for three more minutes, yeah."

"Copy. Ranger out."

The call ends and Graham immediately adjusts course, taking a turn that I didn't see coming. The sedan handles it smoothly, but the bikes are even smoother, following without losing any ground.

"Three minutes," I repeat, mostly to myself. "We just have to survive three more minutes."

"We'll survive longer than that," Graham says. "But yeah, three minutes until this gets easier."

From the back seat, Vale laughs again, that same cold, humorless sound that makes my skin crawl.

"You really think backup is going to save you? Demon has people everywhere. Your brothers might not even make it here. Might be killed on the way."

"Your brothers are the ones who are dead," Graham reminds him. "One in a motel room, two more probably bleeding out waiting for paramedics who may or may not arrive in time. You want to keep score? Because the Iron Phoenix is winning."

Vale goes quiet again, but I can feel his rage radiating from the back seat like heat from a fire. I risk a glance back at him. He's staring at Graham with such pure hatred that it actually makes me flinch. His wrists are red and raw where the zip-ties are cutting into his skin from him pulling against them, and there's dried blood under his nose from where Graham hit him earlier.

He looks exactly like the kind of man who would shoot someone in the head while two others held them down.

He looks exactly like the kind of man who would enjoy it.

I turn back around, unable to stomach looking at him any longer.

"Two minutes," Graham says, and I realize he's been counting in his head this entire time.

The bikes are trying a new formation now: two on the left, one on the right, spreading out wide like they're trying to give themselves multiple angles of attack.

Graham sees it happening and doesn't react beyond a slight tightening of his grip on the steering wheel.

"When they make their move," he says to me, his voice calm and steady, "there's going to be a lot of noise. Possibly gunfire. Possibly impact. I need you to stay down again. Get as low as you can, cover your head, and don't move until I tell you it's safe."

"What about you?"

"I'll be fine. I've done this before."

"You've been in car chases while protecting witnesses from biker gangs before?"

"Variations on the theme. Close enough."

He's trying to make me feel better, I think. Trying to inject some levity into a situation that is objectively terrible. It shouldn't work.

It kind of does anyway.

I unbuckle and slide down into the footwell again, making myself small, wrapping my arms over my head. The position is uncomfortable and makes me feel even more helpless than I already did, but I do it anyway because Graham asked me to and so far every single thing he's asked me to do has kept me alive.

"Good," Graham says. "Stay just like that."

The engine noise changes pitch as he accelerates. The bike engines get louder as they pull closer. I can hear shouting now, muffled through the car's frame but definitely shouting.

Then gunshot.