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12
Jack
Ipulled out my Glock and roared up about thirty feet behind the guy, slightly to his right.
He twisted around to look at me, but in the darkness, I saw little more than a silhouette against his bike’s headlight on the road.
Part of that silhouette was the gun in his hand.
I swerved directly behind him as the fucker’s pistol went off.
BLAM BLAM!
It’s damn hard to aim a gun on a motorcycle. It’s even harder to do it when you’re shooting backwards and driving 100 miles an hour down a desert road at night.
He didn’t even get close to hitting me.
But he sure as hell pissed me off.
I thought about shooting him in the back myself, but that would defeat the purpose of why I came out here. Might as well have let Lou finish him off.
So I’d go with Plan A.
If he broke his neck, though, I wouldn’t be too upset over it.
I moved to his far left. If he wanted to take another shot at me, he would have to reach around his body and put the gun right up against his face and ear, which I doubt he was going to do. Or he could switch the gun and try with his left.
I was betting he wasn’t a leftie.
Even if he was, it would take him a couple seconds to shoot again.
A couple seconds was all I needed.
I said it’s hard to aim a gun on a motorcycle.
It’s a hell of a lot easier when you’re shooting straight ahead and you can steady your arm against something.
I braced my arm against the handlebars of my bike and aimed.
BLAM!
BLAM!
On the second shot, I blew out his tire.
At 60 miles an hour, he might’ve been able to handle it.
Not at 100.
Down went Mr. Santa Muertes, scraping all over the desert highway in a shower of sparks on the asphalt.
13
Fiona
Kade drove up in Jack’s driveway and parked the bike. He cautioned me to stay behind him, then pulled out his .45 as he crept up to the front door.
Everything was quiet. No sign of life at all.
