Page 152 of Bad Attitude
I disconnect my radio, plugging the jack into the adapter with trembling fingers. Too much goddamn adrenaline. It costs me valuable seconds.
The rear window of the parked car in front of me justexplodes. I duck low in reflex, and the next shot hits the car immediately behind me, blowing out another window. My phone spills from my hand, sliding down my tank, dropping to the ground.Shit!
I kick the bike into gear even as I shove my loose glove inside my jacket, then accelerate out of my parking space. There’s a crunch from my back tire that marks the demise of my goddamn phone, but I have more pressing problems: one of the street bikes is right behind me, the rider firing over his handlebars. They’re fucking trying tokillme. Who the hell are these security?
Meridian Pacific’s own. Chinese enforcers.
I race down the street, swerving randomly, jinking as best I can, not sure if he’s firing or where the bullets go if he does. Then another car window shatters as I go by, telling me all I need to know.
There’s a stop sign at the end of the road, and I grit my teeth and blast past it, trusting the quiet of the hour and pure damn luck as I take the corner as fast as I dare, my bike right on its side.
Fuck!The road is a one-way street, and I’m heading south—the wrong way. Two days riding thisplace, and I’ve still miscounted. A car’s coming towards me, blinding headlights, horn blasting. I swerve, missing it by inches.
I listen hard for the crunch of the bike behind me hitting that car, but nothing comes. Shame. Ahead of me, the second bike pulls out of the next street, but I’m past before he can react. Now they’re both on my tail, and God knows where that SUV has gone.
They’re too damn nimble on these streets. I need to get out, find open space where my speed wins. The 101 is not far ahead, but I can’t pick it up riding the wrong way down this road.
I turn at the end, southwest again, and I know this one’s the wrong way too. But it’s a wide four-lane road, empty enough, and I race down it, gaining space on my pursuers, skimming from lane to lane to avoid oncoming cars, their horns blasting. Beneath the 101 overpass, through a red light, car brakes screeching. I swerve hard, skimming inches past a sedan.
A crunch behind me makes me grin. That’s at least one of those bastards off my tail. I risk a glance in the mirror, and the rider’s lying on the asphalt, his bike a wreck next to him. Looks like he T-boned the car I missed.
But the other bike rides around and keeps coming.
I have a decision to make. There are five miles of built-up city before I hit San Bruno Mountain State Park. I can stay on the back streets, and risk my pursuers having the advantage. Or worse—riskcrashing. Or I can shift to the 101, lose them more easily, but I’ll be in the shit if there’s a police response in the air. Moving this fast, I’ll be highly visible on the freeway.
Gritting my teeth, I tear down the street I’m on, then hit the brakes hard, taking the first right at random, and straight into the next left. I don’t care which road it is anymore, only that I’m still heading south, jinking when I feel like it, using the grid system to make progress.
It’s slower than going straight, but they can’t follow me if they don’t know where I am.
The distantwhumpwhumpof a helicopter proves I made the right decision. Or maybe it’s a coincidence, nothing to do with five people base-jumping off a downtown building in the middle of the night, with multiple high-speed chases through the city.
My thoughts turn to Declan. He seemed to get away easily enough… after being in a goddamn gun fight. He seems invincible, but I still worry for him. And the north route out of the city is the harder one, the bridges easy for the police to intercept. He won’t take that risk, will he?
No, the real risk is Cammy and Tasha, in the van with a bleeding Cole.
And Kurt, picked up by who? Men in suits, Dario said. That doesn’t even sound like security from the building—which could be anyone. Friends of his in San Fran? That’s a possibility, but surely he would have recognized them. Enemies? That would be disastrous, but I don’t think it’s likely. They would’vehad to have known he was here.
Law enforcement? They would have had to know he was here too, which raises a whole heap of questions. But he gave me the little black box, almost like he expected to get caught.
Maybe he got rid of all his incriminating equipment, but if they saw his ’chute, he’s fucked.
Damn it all!
Now what the hell am I supposed to do? I figured I’d ride back to LA, give Kurt this damn black box, and be done with it all. Instead, he might be out of the picture for I don’t know how long.
It’s almost best case that he got picked up by the police. At least then his lawyers will get him out. How long will that take? Days, easily.
I’m holding something I promised him I wouldn’t let out of my sight, or give to anyone.
And I don’t even know what the fuck it is.
I can’t go back to my apartment, not with this in my pocket. It’ll be the first place anyone looks for me. I certainly can’t go to Declan; Kurt was explicit. I have to get another phone, reach out to Cammy and Tasha.
Shit, I can’t even remember their numbers. I’ve neverneededto remember their numbers; they’re stored in mygoddamn phone.
Except Declan’s. For some reason, his I can remember just fine. The one person I can’t call.
I’m so screwed.
