Page 23

August’s string of curses had me swinging round to face him. “Problem?”

“You could say that.” He gave the bike a kick. Not hard enough to knock it over, but enough to signal his displeasure. “It won’t start.”

“Why?”

He gave a humorless laugh. “Well, that’s the question of the day, isn’t it?” He touched his fingers to his forehead again, blood still trickling from the wound. It probably hurt like hell. “It could be a switch. And when I say a switch, that could be the side stand switch, the neutral safety, or the kill switch. Or it could be none of those, and it could be a loose wire. Failing that, it could be a broken spark plug or a coil.”

I nodded as if I understood a single word of what he’d said. Maybe I wouldn’t get a motorbike, after all. “Whatever it is, can you fix it?”

“Yeah.” There was no time to feel relief before August quantified his statement. “Not here, though. I need parts. There’s a garage near here where I should be able to find them. I’ve raided it before for parts.” A third touch of his forehead. “I’ve got one hell of a headache.”

“That happens,” I said, “when you headbutt the road. Do you feel sick?”

August went to shake his head before thinking better of it. “No.”

“Dizzy?”

“No.”

“Any double vision?”

“No.”

“Then you’re fine.”

“Are you going to call me a baby again?”

“Probably.” There was no stopping the smile that slid onto my face.

August’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you smiling?”

“I think we should be glad we came off a bike at speed with no serious injuries.”

“Yeah, maybe,” August admitted. He squinted back up the road. “Funny though, that there was oil on the road. Where do you think it came from?”

“Another bike,” I suggested.

“Doubtful.”

“Why?”

“It just is.”

I rolled my eyes at the less than stellar reasoning as August wheeled his bike into the trees so it couldn’t be seen from the road. He studied the bend and the trees, an obvious attempt to triangulate our position that I doubted would be successful. Luckily, I’d learned a few things in the army, gathering as many rocks as I could and fashioning them into a rudimentary arrow pointing to where he’d left the bike. Yes, there was a risk someone else might come along and investigate, but if August couldn’t start the bike, then it was unlikely they’d be able to either, especially without the key.

“I guess we’re walking then,” I said when August stepped back onto the road. He glanced at the arrow but said nothing. I took that as confirmation of what a brilliant idea it was.

“I guess we are.”

I fell into step beside him as he started down the road. “So the plan is what? Find the garage, get the parts, bring them back here, fix the bike, get the suppressants?”

“Yeah.”

“What were you going to say about them before?”

August’s pause before answering was long enough we traveled quite the stretch of road. “I don’t remember.”

I came to a halt. “I don’t believe that. I think you’re lying again. I think―”