Two motorcycles staying close but not overtaking me.
My pulse spiked, but I kept my cool.
Just bikers heading in the same direction.
Happened all the time.
But my detective instincts gave a warning buzz that traveled along my arms.
Engines revved, and the bikers split.
One came up on either side of my car, and a third peeled out of an alley as I passed.
They boxed me in so smooth and clean, I barely had time to understand what they’d done.
The rider at my driver’s side window motioned for me to pull over. I took one look at the red serpent patch on his back and said to hell with that.
When I gave him the middle finger, he swerved toward my car.
Okay then. I whipped the wheel hard to the right, almost running over his buddy.
They shouted at each other, and I righted the wheel.
Let them stew on that one.
Movement in the rearview mirror captured my attention.
The man behind me shouted something, and both men swerved away from the car.
An instant later, he pulled a gun and fired at my car.
The series of rapid-fire pops exploded through the back glass.
I flinched and slid lower in the seat.
If I stopped, I was dead.
The location of the nearest police station was locked in my head, and I took the next left, heading toward safety.
Another series of shots, and my rear tires burst.
The car fishtailed, and I let the wheel turn into the slide.
My defensive tactics training prepared me for this, but not for the patch of black ice that lifted the front end and sent me spinning in a complete three-sixty.
The car slammed into a street sign and came to a stop.
My ragged breathing filled the car.
I dove sideways, reaching for my purse and the phone and weapon inside.
I hadn’t bothered strapping the weapon to my waist because I hadn’t seen the need.
That foolish thought was going to get me killed.
Three guns appeared, two at the passenger side and one at the front of the car.
“Get out, Detective.”
