Chapter 12: Two Headlights

The two bikes came up on either side of me at seventy miles an hour.

They were Saints, in colors, riding close enough that I could have touched their handlebars.

I recognized the prospect with the bandaged knee.

He grinned at me through his visor.

I opened the throttle and the Sportster leaped, but the road ahead bent into a long curve, and a black SUV was parked sideways across both lanes.

Its hazard lights were blinking.

I stood on the brakes.

The bike slewed, and I laid it down on the shoulder in a spray of gravel and rolled off into the weeds.

The urn thudded in the saddlebag.

By the time I got to my knees, hands were on me.

Two men had my arms, and a third pulled the saddlebag off my bike.

"Careful with it," said a voice from the open back door of the SUV. "That's your daddy."

My head came up.

Bronco sat in the back seat with one boot propped on the floor, at ease.

He had changed his shirt and shaved, and he looked rested.

"Hey, babe," he said. "Get in."

"Go to hell."

"You're welcome to try that on the highway. It's two a.m., no cameras, no deputy. Or you get in, and we talk like adults."

"You're suspended."

"I'm out for a drive."

He smiled.

"Put her in."

The two men pushed me into the SUV, onto the seat beside him.

Somebody slammed the door.

The central locks clicked down.

I looked at the driver's seat.

Misty sat with both hands on the wheel, in a faded sweatshirt, with her bleached hair pulled back.

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