Page 98 of Wild Fever

My wrist twisted the throttle, and the engine howled. The bike launched forward as the scumbag behind me blasted off a few shots.

Muzzle flash flickered, and the bullets zipped through the air.

I zigged and zagged, making myself a difficult target. Hitting the triple digits, I came up fast on a vehicle in front of me. I veered across the dotted yellow line and threaded the needle around the car, narrowly avoiding the oncoming traffic.

A distorted horn screamed past, and wind buffeted the bike.

I hugged the tank and took a right at the next intersection. I leaned hard, testing the limits of grip. My wrist twisted the throttle and launched out of the turn. Wind whistled my helmet, and the landscape blurred by.

I raced through the neighborhood, keeping a watch out for kids and pedestrians. The street was empty except for a few cars parked at the shoulder. I whizzed past garbage cans and palm trees.

The stop sign ahead approached fast. Beyond it, four lanes of traffic—two in each direction, split by a median.

At 97 mph, I braked hard, the nose digging in.

The bike stopped on a dime.

Like lightning, I drew my pistol from my waistband, angled it back toward the scumbag, and squeezed the trigger three times.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

My bullets pelted the dirtbag in the chest, knocking him off the bike. He fell to the pavement, flat on his back with a thud and a groan.

My eyes widened as his bike kept barreling toward me.

I twisted the throttle and dropped the clutch. The rear tire smoked and squealed as I did a 180.

The black sportbike narrowly missed me but stormed forward into the lane of cross traffic.

It barely missed two cars as it rolled across the intersection to the median. Tires screeched and horns honked.

The bike kept barreling forward into the far lanes.

I cringed, fearing the worst.

Another car honked its horn and swerved to avoid a collision.

I almost couldn't bear to look. Through squinted eyes, I watched as the sport bike somehow made it across unscathed. It keptgoing down a residential street and finally fell over on the side of the road, knocking over a green garbage can.

I hopped off the bike and advanced to the perp groaning in agony on the ground. I kicked his weapon well out of reach, then lorded over him, surveying him for injuries. Three bullets had pierced his leather jacket, but I didn't see any blood. I pulled the jacket wide.

He wore a bulletproof vest under his jacket, the slugs embedded in the Kevlar.

With the wind knocked out of him, he gasped for breath. I knew from previous experience it was like getting hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. "On your belly, now! Hands behind your head.”

By the size of him, I figured he was the assailant who’d been with Erica Lang when she broke into Vanessa's father's house. No doubt an employee of STT-X, or a subsidiary thereof.

After a moment’s hesitation, he complied. I holstered my pistol, knelt down, and ratcheted the cuffs around his wrists. Then I rolled the scumbag back over and pulled off his helmet. He was mid-30s with a square jaw, short brown hair, and dark eyes. He matched the description of the fake FBI agent Barclay had mentioned. "You're under arrest for the attempted murder of a police officer, among other things."

I put my gun to his head. “Start talking. Tell me who you work for. I swear to God, I'll shoot you right now.”

64

“You know who I work for,” he groaned.