The Kawasaki was a sweet ride. The engine buzzed like a motorboat, the sounds revving into a higher range, and she shifted gears.
Noel was riding, confident, sure of her skills but no squid, a rider overconfident of her abilities. She hadn’t seen Richards’s note tucked into the helmet until she went to put it on. “Better wary than roadkill.” That, of course, put things in perspective.
She was thirty minutes from Harmonie Kennels when she heard the sound of another bike, big and powerful, screaming up fast behind her. Cole glanced in her rearview mirror, thinking it might be Richards. It wasn’t. The guy didn’t wear a helmet. And he was straddling a vintage Harley.
She automatically glanced ahead. No oncoming traffic. She checked her speed and moved closer to the shoulder, expecting him to roar past her in a cloud of exhaust and earsplitting engine noise.
Instead, she heard him shifting down, coming up behind her until he was so close she could no longer see all of him in the mirror.
She waved him around her. Nothing.
Looking steadily ahead, she decided to ignore him. From what little she’d glimpsed of him, black shades, bearded, with a bandana holding back long greasy hair, he wasn’t anyone she wanted to deal with.
Suddenly he came around her, engine roaring, until he had pulled up alongside.
Cole glanced at him. He wore jeans and a dirty white T-shirt, revealing arms lean and sinewy and so browned by the sun and wind they looked like tree roots. As he moved a little ahead of her she spied his denim vest and the insignia on the back. The name PAGAN was emblazoned on a patch between his shoulders. Below it a separate patch depicted the god Surti, the Norse god, sitting on the sun and wielding a sword.
Her stomach did a flip as her hands flexed tight on the handlebars. As a law-enforcement officer she was familiar with gang symbols. After all, Maryland was the reputed home of the outlaw motorcycle gang. But meeting one on this lonely stretch of the road was not a good feeling. Not good at all.
He grinned and motioned for her to pull over.
Cole shook her head and motioned him to go ahead then looked away, hoping he would get the message.
Instead he swung his bike inward toward hers and, reaching out, grabbed her butt.
Shocked by the intimate gesture, Cole swerved sharply away from him, almost onto the shoulder. She caught herself before she could spin out. The bike wobbled as she corrected the drift but she didn’t go down.
She looked around as he roared away, just past a bend in the road. She had lost speed and rolled to a stop, hoping he’d just go on now, content he’d frightened her.
Woman on a bike. Har har. Go away.
Sweat had popped out on her face and neck, and began to trickle down her chest as she debated what to do. She turned and squinted, trying to see if there was oncoming traffic, but the ribbon of road behind her was empty. If she went on, he might be lying in wait for her.
No reason to go ahead. She was just testing out her new toy.
Returning was not retreat, she reasoned calmly. It was, in this instance, a calculated maneuver to defuse the situation.
She was barely a mile back down the empty road when a rising whine, keener than a chain saw, signaled that he had turned around and was coming back, fast.
“Shit. Where the hell is a traffic jam when you need it?”
She forced herself not to speed up. It was clear that his hog could overtake hers and she didn’t want to get caught in a confrontation at high speeds with an unfamiliar bike.
This time, he screamed past her, leaving her choking on dust.
He began braking almost immediately and turned quickly, kicking up dust and leaving, she knew from the smoke rising under his rear wheel, rubber on the road.
Her heart began to pound in earnest. He wasn’t done with her. And that wasn’t good. She blinked the sweat out of her eyes, afraid to take a hand off the handles.
He had rolled to a stop 50 yards in front of her, teeth gleaming through the tangle of his beard. As she neared him he signaled for her to pull over.
Cole’s gaze shifted left and right, calculating if she could get around him by using the other lane. Maybe. Or he might kick her bike as she passed, sending her spinning off into the trees. Then what?
Control the situation. Survive. Police Academy 101.
It took her a few seconds to remember she wore a weapon in a pancake holster at the small of her back. She had gotten out of the habit of being armed at all times while on Harmonie Kennel property. But leaving the property had prompted the habit to return. She owed another thank-you to the police academy for that.
She stopped ten yards away and cut the engine. Not pausing to use the kickstand, she let the bike drop as she dismounted, jerked off her gloves, and reached with both hands for her gun. Though her hands were sweaty, the weight of the Keltec PT3A pistol felt reassuringly good as her fingers closed over the butt.