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Just like old times. That’s all this is. I used to deal with things like this all the time. I ruled Brockford like an unstoppable badass. And I’m still that person. It’s just been buried for a long time.
As I approach the cross-street up ahead, I catch sight of Runner signaling from his bike beside me, telling me to slow it down and be on high-alert.
I tense, my hands tightening around the steering wheel, as I realize he thinks that it’s an optimal point of attack for the Gatekeepers, that they could be lying in wait.
I take his cue and slow down. Runner stays tight to my left.
We’re seconds from the cross street.
And that’s when I catch sight of two blacked-out vans hurtling toward us—one from the left, one from the right. I didn’t lose them after all, they just remained hidden, waiting for an opportunity to strike in this middle-of-nowhere location of the city, so they can finally box me in and force me to come to a stop.
It’s more than a scare.
Their tactics, the moves they’re making, all point toward a kidnapping.
All hell breaks loose then.
Runner pulls his gun and flips the safety off, all in one smooth motion, while riding one-handed.
Just like I have, he notes how much closer the van on the left is.
In fact, if I continue across the intersection, there’s gonna be a bitch of a collision.
I work in tandem with Runner, slowing my speed a little more.
He fires off a shot at the front left tire of the closest van. It lurches, but keeps forcing itself along. Runner doesn’t waste time taking out the other three. Instead, in the next split-second, a bullet is tearing through the windshield, blowing right through the throat of the driver. He frantically slaps his hand to the wound, but it’s no use. He’ll bleed out in seconds with that wound. The vehicle swerves wildly across the road, despite the guy in the passenger seat grabbing at the steering wheel in a bid to stabilize it. It’s way too late, though, and the vehicle spins out, before careening into a ditch over on the opposite side of the road.
I zip across the intersection and Runner is behind me, almost tailgating me, he’s so close.
A quick glance tells me why.
The other van that was on the right has made the turn and is in hot pursuit.
Runner has made himself a buffer, blocking their way to me.
It’s an incredibly dangerous position to be in.
God, if Sarah knew about this, she’d be beside herself.
That’s Runner, though. Loyal to the club beyond the edge of reason sometimes. He’ll pull out all the stops and protect the President’s Old Lady at all costs.
I shake my head to myself. I can’t allow that.
I won’t leave Sarah a widow, and their son fatherless.
I’m zipping down my window in the next second and gesturing through it for him to come up on my side, anything to take him out of the absolute immediate line of fire.
Through my side mirror, I see him shake his head, adamant in his tactic and stubborn as ever.
“Dammit!” I mutter, jerking forward and ripping open my glovebox.
I snatch out my Beretta that I always keep ready and loaded inside.
It’s been a while since I’ve handled a gun and I used to be damned good. The second I wrap my fingers around it, I feel that familiarity as though it’d never left.
I tighten my hold as I hear shouts even over the roar of Runner’s Harley. The van’s rear windows are rolled down. There’s a guy gesturing wildly and yelling at Runner, who’s half-turned on his bike, doing an ace job of keeping it steady in spite of it.
We’re almost at the last turn that will take us into the lot of the Sundown Motel.
