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Striding from the room, Brent stopped outside the door to call his girlfriend so she wouldn’t worry when he didn’t return on time. Though the helmets and gloves lived in the motorbikes’ saddle bags, he had to swing by the guard’s break room to hunt out a leather jacket. Wishing he had his own, he grabbed one that fit well enough, and hurried out into the rain. Dashing across to the motor court, he found Stu had already rolled out and was waiting by the gate. Hastily pulling on a helmet and gloves, he climbed on board, entered the route into the navigator, and rolled down the driveway. Reaching the gates, he stopped to show Stu the map and coordinates, but Stu waved him ahead indicating they needed to go, and he’d follow.
He quickly realized his friend was right.
The Zeppelin brothers were Eastern European, and Brent knew they were utterly ruthless. A few seconds too late and they could arrive to find their fearless leader dead.
As he headed down the main road toward the freeway, he was grateful he wouldn’t have to travel far before exiting. Riding a motorbike on the highway in the rain was precarious, and he didn’t have the luxury of traveling at a sedate speed. Given the conditions he thought he was moving at a fair clip, but Stu zoomed up next to him, signaling they need to go faster. It was typical of his friend. A former racer, Stu was a speed demon. Against his better judgment, Brent accelerated.
Glad to make it safely to the exit, he soon found himself streaking down back roads. Though they were mostly tar sealed, when he hit dirt lanes he was forced to slow down. Though the rain had eased up, it had left the ground slimy. As he followed a narrow track through a heavily wooded area, his navigator told him they were one minute from their destination.
He slowed.
Motorbikes were noisy, and he didn’t want to advertise their presence. But Marco was in danger, and if they stopped and hiked into the woods, they’d lose precious minutes.
The question was unexpectedly answered.
Two figures looking like spooky silhouettes ran toward them, and he immediately recognized Marco’s tall, wide-shouldered frame.
“We need to go now,” Marco panted as they met up.
“The helmet’s in—”
“No time,” he snapped, climbing on board as Joe settled behind Stu. “Just go! Now!”
Turning the bike and heading back down the dirt track, Brent’s adrenalin pumped through his body. He was prepared for anything… he thought.
A tremendous boom pierced the dark, ominous night.
He jerked in shock.
The bike almost toppled.
Managing to regain control, he forced himself to relax.
Being tense on a Harley spelled trouble.
* * *
Marco’s heart hammered against his chest.
His instincts had been right.
He’d driven into a trap.
Looking anxiously behind him, he saw Stu and Joe glowing orange from the huge fireball lighting up the sky. The SUV had been blown up—but Stu’s motorbike suddenly fishtailed. Horrified, Marco watched it slide sideways and hit the ground.
“Stop! Stop!” he yelled, grabbing at Brent’s jacket.
Leaping off the moment Brent slowed down, Marco raced back to help, but as he neared, to his great relief he saw Joe stand up, and Stu managed to push himself out from under the bike.
“I’m okay,” Joe declared as Marco reached him.
“Are you sure? You’re not wearing a helmet.”
“No, but look, I’m covered in mud, the ground’s soft from all the rain.”
“Stu, are you all right?” Marco asked anxiously, calling across to the man lying a few feet away.
Nodding his head, Stu slowly rose to his feet.
