He shifts to face me. “Get much traffic out this way?”
“Not usually.”
He readjusts, like he’s not the type to sit still. The guy would probably blow his fucking brains out in a small town like South Bay. We don’t see a whole lot of action. Other than the obviousdrug-running biker thing. Maybe that’s how I’ll get him out of here. Bore him to death.
He sighs. “What do you do for fun around here?”
“Not much. I spend most of my free time at the boxing club. I teach a few classes. Gloved mostly, but a little MMA, self-defence. That kind of thing.”
“Hmm. So you’re a fighter.”
I shrug, focus still fixed out the windshield. “Since I was a kid.”
We fall silent, and Allen wiggles again. “How long are we gonna be here?”
I take another bite of my donut, chewing slowly as he glares at the side of my head. “You ever just pause? Stop and smell the roses kind of thing?”
He snorts. “No. Waste of my time. Guess I forgot why being a patrol cop fuckin’ sucks so much.”
“Right. Well, that’s what this is.” Another bite of the donut. “We’re on a deserted road in the middle of the night. I’d bet Donovan is sleeping snug as a bug with that pretty old lady of his. It’s quiet time. So how about you shut the f?—”
A single headlight appears and my gut drops. Dammit. Allen is nearly vibrating with excitement.
One headlight means a motorcycle.
So much for my quiet night.
The bike tears past us. My radar clocks them at seventy-five. If I were alone, I’d probably let it slide. I’m not in the business of turning on my lights this late for a measly fifteen over, especially when it’s probably one of Donovan’s guys. But with Allen in the car, that might look suspicious.
“Holy shit,” he spits out as the name of the registered owner pops up on the screen of my plate scanner.
Jimmy Donovan.
Holy shit is right.
“What the fuck you waiting for, man?” he shouts. “Let’s go!”
Teeth gritted, I kick the car into drive and peel out of my spot. On the road, I turn on my lights and siren. This isn’t good. Axe will have my fucking ass if this ends with me throwing his father in a cell. But more than that, if the former Sinner president is back in South Bay, that can only mean one thing. Trouble.
The bike picks up speed. The road twists and bends as it winds deeper into the wooded valley surrounding our town, and he rides the pavement like he’s a part of it. Like he doesn’t realize how fast he’s going or that there’s a set of cherries flashing in his rearview. That’s Jimmy Donovan, I guess. I might have been raised to hate him, but the man sure can ride.
We hit eighty, and then ninety. He doesn’t slow. Allen is on the edge of his seat, tugging on the overhead grab bar, his other hand on his sidearm. Kid in a candy store.
Just when I think we’re headed for an all-out speed chase, Jimmy’s rear lights flash red.
I have to slam on my brakes to avoid plowing into him. I’ve barely skidded to a halt before Allen is out of the car. A second later, I follow, unclipping the strap of my holster so I can get to my gun quickly if I need to.
“Step off the machine, sir,” Allen commands.
It’s a black sports bike. And pretty high end. Bit of an odd choice for a man like Jimmy, who used to favour bigger, meatier bikes. A Harley-or-die kind of man. Jimmy’s also… a lot smaller than I remember.
I pull out my flashlight and shine it on the bike and its rider. High-heeled boots, tight black jeans, and a fitted leather jacket hugging curves rather than bulk.
The fuck?
The woman hops off the motorcycle and yanks off her helmet, then gives her head a shake, freeing her wavy shoulder-length brown hair. “Who you calling sir?”
Beside me, Allen curses. “Who the fuck are you?”
