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Jay-Jay poured Sam a glass of water. “What problem, my friend?”
He took a drink, nodding toward the door. “Avery’s men . . . Saw their car parking just up the street . . . One walked into the business at the far end.”
Jay-Jay nodded at the bikers sitting at the tables closest to the bar. They rose from their seats, two moving to the front door, two heading down the hall to the back. “The second time they have been on this street,” he said. “That would worry me.”
Remi grabbed her purse from the counter beside her. “Should we go out the back?”
Sam shook his head. “No way to get to our car without being seen.” He looked around the room, eyeing the men and women who remained. “Then again, there actually may be a way . . .” He leaned toward the bartender, disclosing his idea in a voice too low for Remi to hear over the music.
Twenty-four
Jay-Jay nodded in agreement as Sam went over the details, asking a few questions in return. At the conclusion, the man gave a deep laugh, saying, “A good plan, my friend. Hide in plain sight. If we can find some volunteers.” His gaze landed on a couple sitting near the jukebox. “Antwan, bring your lady here.”
The pair walked up to the bar, and Jay-Jay asked, “How would you like to earn free drinks for a week?”
“For what?” Antwan asked.
Sam said, “Lend us your gear for a few minutes.”
An agreement was struck. Antwan and his girlfriend turned over their leather vests and motorcycle helmets, and Jay-Jay slid a set of keys across the counter toward Sam. “You’ll take very good care of my bike.”
“Like it was my own.”
“You’re sure you know how to ride?”
Sam picked up the keys. “Anything happens to it, there’ll be a new one waiting before the day is through.”
“The old one is fine. It’s the black Harley with the license frame advertising my bar.”
Sam glanced at Remi’s expensive-looking purse—talk about a beacon announcing their presence. Jay-Jay, however, solved the problem by providing a backpack to hide it in. And just in time, as one of the bikers standing watch at the front door announced that the two men had just emerged from the shop across the street and were eyeing the bar.
Jay-Jay nodded. “Who wants to ride?”
Everyone in the room stood, ready to roll.
“You see?” Jay-Jay told Sam. “My friends are your friends.”
“One problem,” Sam replied. “These men are armed.”
“No worries,” Jay-Jay said. “Billy here will make sure you’re well protected.”
A towering biker stepped forward and lifted both sides of his vest. On the left, Sam saw a handgun in a shoulder holster, and, on the right, a trench knife with a handle that doubled as metal knuckles. Suspecting that Billy wasn’t the only armed man in the room, he was grateful that everyone here had decided he and Remi were the good guys.
Turning back to the bartender, Sam shook hands with him one last time. “We’ll make it worth everyone’s while.”
“Which will be very much appreciated. But not necessary. Be safe, my friend.”
Sam and Remi put on the helmets, Remi tucking her hair beneath. Both lowered their visors before stepping outside, surrounded by the other bikers. They mounted their motorcycles, Remi sitting behind Sam, wrapping her arms around his waist, as he started
the Harley, then shifted into gear.
They took off, engines roaring. Sam glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Avery’s men crossing the road toward the bar. One of them looked their direction.
Suddenly, both men started running down the street.
So much for that deception. And any advantage they had in getting to their car. They’d have to lose them on the motorcycles—not part of Sam’s plan.
Unless . . .
