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Papapapapa—
“Oh, shit!”
KaBOOM!
A fiery explosion rocked the desert.
“No!”
Blinding light flashed in a ball of fire that soared toward the heavens.
Noah’s bike bucked, its front wheel lifting off the shaking ground. Muscles straining, he tried like hell to hold onto the grips.
Crack!
Another shot.
Pain, searing and deep, cut through Noah’s shoulder just as he saw the gunman take aim again. “Damn it!” He punched the gas. The bike leapt forward, dusty desert air screaming past him.
Don’t let go!
But his left arm was useless.
Blam!
This time, the bike took the hit and bucked, the front wheel spinning wildly. Noah tried to hold on and failed, his body flying through the air.
Thud! His head smacked against the ground, his bones jarring on the hardpan.
“Oooh.” Agony wracked his body, and he felt the blood oozing from his shoulder, the burn of scrapes on his face and hands. With all his strength, he tried to move. Failed. Sucked in his breath. Coughed out dry grit that he’d inhaled. The world spun crazily for a second—night stars obliterated by the flames, shadowed red rock seeming to swim and dance before his eyes, darkness plucking at the edges of his consciousness.
Get up! Get up now!
He blinked. Tried to clear his head. Attempted to focus. Spat blood. Oh, God, he was in trouble. As if through watery glass, he saw the fireball, the sports car burning in a garish pyre, flames licking toward a smoky sky.
And in front of the hellish glare?
A lone silhouette.
The figure of the tall, lanky gunman who was steadily approaching, a rifle hanging from one large hand, the bill of a baseball cap visible and maybe a thick moustache above a square jaw. Or maybe not.
And he was coming for him.
Why the hell had he goaded the guy? What had he been thinking? That all of this somehow had to do with Remmi? Sweating, fear propelling him, Noah tried to scuttle backward, to crab-walk away, to force himself to his feet, to run as if the hounds of hell were chasing him, but his muscles refused to respond.
Run, damn it. Run like hell.
He set his jaw. Using all his strength, he pushed away from the advancing figure, then collapsed.
His brain was screaming, Run! He tried to scramble away, to scurry backward, to find a hiding spot, to outrun this . . . this assassin, but he couldn’t so much as force a finger to move. Terror gripped him, adrenaline poured through his veins, but his damned muscles were frozen. Unable to propel him.
Still the attacker came.
Walking slowly.
Taking his time.
Enjoying the moment.
