Page 35 of Snared Rider

Fuck!

I try to commit as much of our attacker’s appearance to memory: his dark hair, and his goatee stick in my mind, but that’s all I see. Then, he gives me a macabre grin and my focus shifts from him as the car inches closer.

It takes everything I have not to crawl up Dean’s back to escape the metal bonnet that is again inches from touching the bike. The car is so close to my back now that I can practically read the serial number on the headlights.

Without warning, Dean yanks the bike to the side. I gasp and have to use the combined strength of my thighs and arms to keep seated. I understand why he did this when I see the vehicle is now in the space we just occupied.

This guy is trying to kill us.

This isn’t just an accident or a pissed off driver trying to get past us. He’s purposely trying to run us off the road. My gut roils as this thought penetrates fully, the magnitude of it making my vision swim.

We are going to die.

Before, it had been a dramatic, fleeting imagining. Now, it’s a reality.

This is my last thought before the bike is shunted forward violently and I feel the breeze of the car roaring at my back.

Then, I’m flying.

I come off the back of the bike. Despite all my efforts to hold on I can’t fight the laws of physics as the bike is clipped at speed. There’s no sense of gravity as I’m propelled into the air. Time seems to slow as the tarmac comes to meet me. Then everything speeds up and I hit hard.

I’m not sure which part of my body makes contact with the ground first, but I end up on my side, sliding up the road like a bowling ball. I try to relax and tuck into myself to protect my limbs, but I can do nothing to protect my head as it bounces violently inside my helmet.

My momentum seems to last forever but, in reality, I come to a stop fairly quickly. I lay stunned, my breath ripping out of me as I try to pull in air. My side is agony and each breath is like inhaling glass. Through my now cracked visor I can see the road and the hills beyond. The bike is about twenty metres from me, on its side, the tyre in the air and rotating. There’s smoke coming from the front end and even with my face covered by the helmet I can smell the acrid scent of burnt rubber.

The car’s stopped a little distance behind the bike and looks undamaged. I can do nothing but watch as the driver’s door opens and the man climbs out of the vehicle. Fear claws at me as I watch him stride across the road towards the downed bike.

He raises his hand and I catch a glint of metal. I’ve seen guns before on TV, so I recognise the weapon in his hands for what it is. It sends chills down my spine.

Shit.

Where’s Dean?

I can’t see him by the bike or on the road, but this guy is moving with purpose. And he’s moving towards the other side of the bike where the edge of the road dips down into an embankment. Is that where Dean is? Is he hurt? Unable to defend himself?

I try to move, to sit, but this sends searing shockwaves of pain through my body, especially down my left side.

Okay, so getting up is not happening.

My thoughts fracture as the staccato peppering of gunfire fills the air. Instinctively, I curl further into myself as I hear it returned. Is Dean firing back? Hope swells in me that he got clear of the bike without injury before he laid it down. This hope is dashed as my brain remembers the fact gunfire is going off all around me.

I want to help, to do something, but fear paralyses me. I may have grown up in a motorcycle club, but my life was flowers and parties; it wasn’t gunfire and the threat of death. I’ve never seen a gun, let alone heard one fired before. And I am terrified.

The shooting comes to an abrupt halt. I understand why when I hear a vehicle approaching. With difficulty, I roll from my side and somehow get to my knees. I blink and turn my heavy head in that direction and see there are two cars now.

The man who ran us off the road backs up two steps and then two more. He lets out a yelled curse before rushing back towards his car. Then, he gets into it and peels off just as the first vehicle pulls to a stop and the driver gets out.

“Hey!” a male voice yells. “You guys okay? My wife’s called the police and paramedics. Help’s on the way!”

I sag onto my bottom, one gloved hand going to the tarmac to keep me from face planting. Thank God help is here. The relief is overwhelming.

I want to get to my feet to check on Dean, but I can’t make my legs work, so I remain sitting. I also want to remove my helmet, but I doubt I can get my arms to work either.

“Honey, are you hurt?” a female voice sounds close. Raising my head, I see she’s standing just to the side of me, but she moves into my line of sight as I stare hazily at her. She’s middle-aged with kind eyes and dark hair streaked with white. She’s also gaping at me with concern that should put me on edge, but I’m too freaked to care.

“Oh, shit,” is what comes out of my mouth, although it is not what I mean to say.

“I can’t believe that other man just drove off without helping,” she mutters to herself as she casts her gaze over me. “What kind of person does that?”