The crack echoes through the parking lot.
He staggers back half a step, and I don't give him space to recover.I drive forward, tackling him against the nearest car.The impact dents the door, but he takes the brunt of it.He goes down on one knee.
I'm on him.My fist comes down at his face and he blocks, but the impact still rattles his brain.Again.He gets his hands up, tries to cover, but I'm past thinking now.
His hands come up to grab my wrist, but I'm already pivoting, using his own grip against him.I wrench my arm free and come back with an elbow strike.It connects with his cheekbone, and he goes down hard.
“Jagger!”Adena yells.“We need to move!”
With her words spurring me on, I drive my fist down at his face one last time.His head snaps back against the asphalt, and he quits moving.
Adena’s already one step ahead.She smashes the butt of the gun into the back of Marquez’s head, then leaps onto the Harley.She swings a leg around, turning to face me, chest to chest, and hooks her legs tight around my waist.Her arms brace against my shoulders and chest, keeping herself steady as she aims at the danger behind us.
"Go!"she shouts.
I twist the throttle, and we lurch forward.
The chapel doors burst open behind us.More of Marquez's crew flooding out—four, five, maybe more.Muzzle flashes light up the darkness.
Bullets ping off metal.One shatters a car window to our left.
I lean into a turn, taking us out of the parking lot and onto Las Vegas Boulevard.The Strip blazes with lights—casinos, hotels, tourists everywhere.
"Two cars behind us!"Adena yells in my ear.
I check the mirror.Black SUVs, weaving through traffic, closing fast.
I open the throttle.The Harley responds, engine screaming as we rocket between lanes.A cab honks.A limo swerves.I don't slow down.
I cut right, taking us down a side street away from the main drag.Darker here.Fewer witnesses, which also means fewer people to get caught in crossfire.
The bikes follow, so do the SUVs.
Adena fires again.Again.Her magazine has to be running low.
One of the bikes pulls up on our left.The rider has a gun.
"Left!"I yell.
Adena swings her aim, fires.The rider jerks, bike wobbling.He overcorrects and goes down, sliding across pavement in a shower of sparks.
She keeps firing as the cartel bodyguards give chase.A bullet clips my wing mirror.I lean harder into the next turn.
The SUVs gain ground.They're heavier but faster on straightaways.I can't outrun them forever.
"How close?"I yell.
"Fifty feet!They're trying to pull alongside!"Adena fires again, her body twisted at an angle that has to scream at her muscles.
I take a hard right into an alley.The Harley shrieks.Adena grips tighter with her legs, adjusting her angle so she doesn't lose her shot.
Behind us, the lead SUV follows.The second one doesn't make the turn—slams into a parked car.
One left.
Adena fires.The SUV's windshield cracks, but it keeps coming.
"Still there!"she yells.
