Hernando chuckled. “I’ll video it for you.”
“I lo’ you Hen’do,” Quint said.
The man shook his helmeted head and looked at Bruiser. “I’ll ride with the helo to the hospital.”
From across the road, closer than he had been, Eli said into comms, “We need to arrange transport for her bike. Alex. You copy that?”
“I copy, my brother. Truck is already on route. ETA a half hour, give or take.”
“Grizz,” Eli said, “let’s check out Quint’s bike.”
She gave a curt nod and made her way to the road. Either Grizz had told him on private channel, or he’d picked up my concerns, mind to mind.Dang it.
In the distance, sirens screamed and something inside me went from frozen fear to shaking, not that it showed on the outside. “Cavalry’s here, at last,” I said.
“Except we’re both tribal, and the cavalry usually meant our people died horribly,” Grizz said into comms. Her tone was the lighthearted black humor of the battlefield. Grizz didn’t talk about her background often, but I knew her family history and part of her combat experience. It hadn’t been pretty.
“Tru dat,” I said, in my best New Orleans fake French accent.
Bruiser raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment on my attempt to sound anything other than me.
By the time the cops had blocked the road, Bruiser and I had traffic flares in place, and the helo was hovering inches off the roadway. It set down gently as a feather, and the team got to work putting a stretcher together from saplings and the tarp, a stretcher that could be carried from Quint’s position into the belly of the helo.
Once again, I was useless. Just the queen. Standing back while my people worked. Not that I wasn’t proud of them—I was totally proud of the team they made—but being queen was freaking useless.
???
The helo blew road dirt and dust, further stopping traffic. Local law enforcement, two on bikes which was the only cool thing about all this, showed up mid-loading and provided muscle to get Quint up the grade and to the open bely of the helicopter. Cops also helped with traffic cones and redirecting travelers back toward either end of the dragon, or telling them they had to wait for several hours.
The road was closed.
This was a crime scene.
Cops—and ATF of all the crazy things—took hours to check all the bikes after Grizz’s hunch about Quint’s bike proved true. Someone had gotten to her crotch rocket at some point and set a small charge under the front fender exactly where important things like brakes could be affected. The box truck her bike had been delivered in was one that had to stay behind for a tire change, when we were attacked on the way out of New Orleans. Maybe someone got inside then. Maybe before we ever left NOLA. It was only the one bike, but it was one bike and one mini-bomb too many. This was now a press-worthy major incident.
The media showed up. More cops. Lots more cops, some wearing uniforms; even more in plain clothes. All the law enforcement agencies wanted in on the action.
Then the North Carolina governor called.
Thegovernor.
My Sweet Cheeks put on his most official fancy British tones and drew upon his extensive vocabulary and crafted a statement on the fly. I stayed in the background and out of the way of that too, standing with Grizz in the shadows of the bare-limbed trees.
Quint and the helo lifted off in the midst of the gathering chaos, heading to the nearest trauma hospital. Hernando wouldmake sure Quint was given the best treatment. I knew that. But I worried.
Once the helo lifted off the cops descended.
Even the Dark Queen had to wait for questioning.
???
The rest of the ride was awful. My people were nervous, on guard. Their collective angst traveled into my blood, enhanced by the power of my crown—which had a mind of its own. Thank GodLe Breloquedidn’t feel the need to protect me and appear under my helmet, to crush my head.
I took one of the last turns on the dragon, my brain still churning the possibilities.
Why Quint’s motorbike and not mine? Was she a deliberate choice or an unlucky opportunity? Had someone gotten into the truck at the inn? In NOLA? At the attack on Alabama’s dark highway? There were too many places it could have happened. I should have ordered motion sensitive cameras inside the truck.
My front tire bounced into a small pothole. Mentally, I slapped myself, jerking my wandering mind and Bitsa back to stability and the road, braking, slowing. Nearly to the pickup point. We’d had no more attacks. Was that a good thing or a bad one?
