“Amazon.” I sweep it over my bike, focusing on the seat, then moving down to the rear fender. “Your father is as paranoid as you are. This were to happen under his watch, he’d make metear this bike apart before I rode it again. Which is how I’ll be spending my afternoon.”
When the detector beeps and the level bar lights up, I steady it on the frame. Then I slip my free hand under the fender and tug a very small tracker from one of the metal brackets.
“GPS,” I say as I toss it to Axe.
“Fucking cops,” he mutters as he turns it over in his hand, scowl deepening.
I steady the device on the front of my machine. More lights. More beeping.
Axe throws up an eyebrow, and I sigh.
Yeah, I’ll definitely be tearing this whole damn bike apart. Who knows what Sergeant Dumb Fuck wired into this thing.
“This is gonna take a bit,” I say.
He shoves the GPS tracker into the pocket of his jeans and motions to my bike. “Text me updates. You coming to Sunday dinner?”
My heart lifts a fraction. “You still do that?”
“It’s tradition. Jack made ribs. Been smoking them since yesterday.”
My heart tugs at Jack’s name. I swallow back the emotion and start pulling out tools from the small kit I travel with. “How about a rain check? I really want to get this done.”
“Don’t suppose I can stop you from riding it before I have your brother check it out?”
“Nope.” I shoot him a grin. “But like I said. I know what I’m doing.”
He’s quiet a beat, but then he lets out a long sigh. “All right. But remember who we got in town. There’s a lot of uniforms on the streets right now. Stay out of trouble. Got it?”
“Yeah, yeah, Prez. I got it. Your dad already gave me that lecture.”
Once I’m alone, I get to work pulling apart the front of my bike and scanning every inch of the machine, top to bottom. I take my time, like Jimmy taught me, so I don’t miss it. The tiny black box, only a couple centimetres in length, neatly tucked amongst the wiring next to the headlight. A microphone.
Carefully, I remove it and place it on the workbench next to me. I’m tempted to destroy it. Or maybe lean in close and whisperSergeant Allen has a tiny penis. For now, I leave it be and focus on checking the rest of my bike—body, brakes, tires, fluids. It takes hours, but I’m thorough, ensuring that everything is as it should be before puzzling the metal innards back together. By the time I’m done, it’s almost nightfall.
Me:
Left a little gift from the sergeant in your desk drawer. Don’t get too chatty around it.
Axe:
10-4
I walk my motorcycle out of the garage and into the parking lot before kicking my leg over it. I crank the ignition and let the engine idle while I tug on my helmet and zip up my leather jacket.
The stress leaks from my body the second I put it into gear and start down the road.
This is what I needed.
Wheel to pavement, open air, the shake of the engine thrumming in my chest as I pick up speed and rip through town. A moment to let go. To forget about my messy life and focus on clearing my mind, on the oxygen pouring into my lungs.
The back roads leading to the old farmlands surrounding South Bay have seen better days. Asphalt cracked and crumbling at the edges, potholes scattered across the blacktop. But empty.Perfect for the kind of ride I need right now. Fast and wild and unincumbered by traffic.
When I hit the first stretch of pavement, I crank the throttle, riding on the centreline and picking up speed. With the faded yellow strip painted on the road as my guide, I tear down the old, battered highway, the headlight lighting up the night, the forest to my left blurring, the fields to my right a smeared sea of browns and greens.
The road bends, and as I curve with it, I catch a light flashing in my side mirror.
Headlights. One headlight.
