We burst out of the alley back onto Boulevard.I weave between traffic, using cars as shields.The SUV does the same, just meters behind us now.
I lean hard, cutting between a sedan and a cab.The SUV tries to follow, but there's no room.It brakes, swerves.
For a second, I think we've lost them.
Then they swing into the opposite lane, coming up on us fast.
"Left side!"Adena yells.She swings her aim and fires.The SUV's side window explodes.
I floor it.The Harley screams.A gap opens between two taxis, and I shoot through it.Behind us, the SUV doesn't make it—horns blare, metal crunches.The SUV collides hard with a delivery truck.
For half a heartbeat, the road is ours.
Then blue lights bloom ahead.
Sirens cut through the noise, sharp and unavoidable.Police cruisers angle across the street, blocking lanes, forcing traffic to choke and scatter.
A roadblock.
I ease off the throttle.There’s nowhere left to run.
The Harley rolls to a stop twenty feet short of the line.Doors swing open.Officers drop behind them, weapons already up, faces tight with adrenaline and expectation.
“Hands where we can see them!”someone shouts.
I kill the engine, raise one hand as high as I can while keeping the bike upright.
Adena doesn't lower her gun right away.She's still facing backward, still in fighter mode.
"Adena," I say quietly."Drop it."
She hesitates for a heartbeat, then her arm falls.The gun clatters to the pavement.
An officer steps forward, weapon still drawn."Off the bike.Now."
I swing my leg over.The moment my feet hit the ground, I reach back to help Adena dismount?—
The shot cracks through the night like a whip.
Fire tears through my upper thigh, hot and blinding.My leg buckles, and the asphalt comes up fast.
My vision blurs.Red and blue lights strobe across my line of sight.
Adena's screaming something, but I can't hear over the ringing in my ears.
She's on her knees beside me.Her hands are pressing down where the bullet went through.
"He's DEA!"she yells."He's undercover DEA!"
An officer steps toward her, weapon still raised."Ma'am, step away from?—"
"Call the DEA field office in New Orleans.Tell them you just shot Agent Rourke!"
Last thing I can make out is Adena’s lips moving, saying something that sounded way too much like her threatening one of the officers with grievous bodily harm.
I choke out a laugh before black presses in, and I slide into oblivion.
Adena
