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“Believe it or not, I’m angry at you, but I don’t want you dead. Especially not after hearing you have a baby depending on you. I’m not a fucking mother killer. I can’t believe your ol’ man lets you work.”
“Fuck off, misogynist.” I glare.
“Give me a break. I meant it because your kid’s so little, and your job’s really fucking dangerous. I’d want you to be safe so my kid didn’t lose her momma.”
Feeling a bit chastised, I nod. “Fine... but if I go with you, I’m taking my gun.”
“The more the merrier, I’ve been strapped this entire time.”
“Fucking Lincoln. For being on the force, he sure has no self-preservation.” I mutter. I love him, but he’s clueless sometimes. “Linc,” I call.
“Yeah?” he says a beat later, coming back into the kitchen. “Grab the baby and take her, please. We need to leave right now.”
His brow furrows. “What’s up?”
“My cover’s been blown, and a notorious motorcycle club is coming after me. There’s a hit on me, and they’ll come after you and my daughter if you two are here. You need to go to safety just like we planned.”
“Where will you go?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet, but it has to be far from here.”
He nods, going on autopilot. He glances at Blow, then leans in and kisses my forehead swiftly, muttering, “Love you. Be safe.” He takes off out of the room and I know my little family is as good as gone until I get in contact with him to bring my girl back.
I meet Blow’s stare, and I swear red-hot jealousy burns in his irises, but I say nothing about it, pretending to be aloof when I’m anything but. “Grab a leather jacket or hoodie, something with a hat, sunglasses, and any cash you have around,” he orders. “It’ll be cold and you need to be covered.”
Dashing to the entry closet, I dig around for the items he told me to retrieve. Lincoln runs around the house with a duffle bag stuffing any pictures my daughter and of our extended family inside, then I hear the garage opening. His truck starts up and sadness hits me. I didn’t get to say goodbye to my daughter, and I don’t know how long it may be before I get to see her precious face again. There’s silence for a moment as I walk back into the kitchen, arms loaded with the items, then the sound of a motorcycle has Blow’s eyes widening.
“Fuck! Put that shit on and hurry the fuck up. We have to get out of here, right now!”
He drags the hoodie over me while I stuff fake ID’s and money into my jeans pockets. I shove the sunglasses on, nearly poking my eye out as he opens the back door and drags me outside. He immediately sprints, yanking me along until I get my footing and catch up with his strides. Of course, I can run fast, I’m a goddamn US Marshal and perps always think they can run from us.
He hops the back fence behind my house, leading into the alley. It takes me a moment to get over the chain link, the entire time he’s whisper yelling at me to hurry the fuck up, like I don’t already know that. Obviously, this situation is dire, and the last thing I’m doing is procrastinating. I’ve seen too many good agents die in the years I’ve been with the department. I’m not trying to meet the same fate.
We run through the narrow alley, around the corner of a tall fence covered in half dead vines, and then continue on past yellow tree shrub-looking things until we eventually skid to a stop behind an eighteen-wheeler illegally parked. The same motorcycle I rode on last night is waiting there with Blow’s helmet sitting on the seat. He digs in his saddlebag, pulling out a half shell, which he deftly plops over his head, then carefully places his normal helmet on my head. We didn’t wear anything before, but I’m guessing it’s because the ride was short. Not that it should matter, any distance on a motorcycle can be dangerous, but safety was the last thing on my mind when I met him. I had one objective: finding the RBMC’s stash for a massive bust.
Needless to say, I had an idea of where it was and I tried to get proof, but it didn’t happen. Now, we’re here and there’s a hit out on me. Blow can say they dispatched a brother to come after me, but we both know what it truly means. The club wants me dead. Probably planning to torture me for information first, but ultimately buried six feet under wherever they like to hide bodies. We still haven’t figured out where the secret spot is or most of them would probably be rotting in a jail cell somewhere.
Instead of loading up on the bike, he nods for me to follow. He takes off running while pushing his bike until we’re down another few blocks. He’s crazy, I know that thing must be heavy, but he never makes a peep about it. Eventually rolling it to a stop, he orders, “Hop on and hold on tight. There will be no going slow, especially at first.”
“I can do that,” I acknowledge and climb on behind him, wrapping my arms around his trim waist. He feels good under my palms, even though I know I shouldn’t be thinking those thoughts right now.
“And no yelling. I need to concentrate.”
“I promise. You got this, Buttercup. I have faith in you.”
He mumbles, but I still manage to catch his words. “I’m glad one of us does.”
In the next second, his bike rumbles, and he takes off. It’s wobbly at first and I nearly shriek, clawing to his sturdy frame, but he gets the motorcycle under control, and then we’re going so fast it feels like we’re flying. He speeds through multiple intersections, and at each one, I clench my eyes shut. I can’t look. We’re going far too fast, and I know if he slams on his brakes or we hit something there’s no coming back from it. I can only repeat the silent prayer in my mind over and over.
I’m too freaked out, my body a jittery mess, to be able to hear anything over the roar of his pipes. My muscles are clenched so tightly, they burn but I don’t dare relax. His bike was definitely not built for silence, but maybe it’s a good thing, as I can’t hear if anyone is chasing after us. I’m not generally a coward, but this situation has my fight or flight response kicking in full force, and it’s telling me to run for my life. It’d be different if I didn’t have my daughter, but she’s too important to try to stubbornly fight my way out of this without a second thought. I need time to process, think things through and regroup after coming up with somewhat of a plan.
“Is he behind us?” I finally shout, but he doesn’t respond. I wonder if he’s freaking out as badly inside as I am. Angel is a death sentence to anyone he goes after, and we’d be dumb to not be at least a little bit terrified of what the man is capable of. Rather than repeating myself, I inhale a deep breath, peel my lids open, and take a good look around. Cataloging our surroundings tells me we’re no longer in town, and we’re headed northeast. I don’t know what is in this direction, and apparently, Blow isn’t ready to discuss it, so I hold on and pay attention as each mile passes by.
An hour passes, and I can feel the temperature drop a few degrees when he pulls off the side of the road and tosses my phone, all the while grumbling about being dumb enough to bring it. This is Texas, and while it’s warmer than most places, it’s still cold here. The more north we go, the temperature cools, and what little leaves are left, eventually disappear completely. In central Texas, where we live, everything stays somewhat green until January when the hard freeze’s hit, but up here, there is no color, only the starkness of the end of winter. Everything will start to change again come February, despite a few surprise freezes to mess all the vegetation up again.
We ride for what feels like forever, my legs sore and my ass vibrated numb before Blow eventually pulls into a small gas station. He parks on the side closest to the building so the pumps hide his bike a little. He carefully climbs off the bike and holds his hand out to help me. “My thighs are sore from clenching the entire ride.”
“Well, this isn’t our destination, so stretch them and use the bathroom while I get gas.”
