Page 61 of Throttle

Once the two pricks start their van, we make our move. I turn on my newly fixed ride I’d have liked to enjoy under better circumstances.

We converge at the road beneath the cliff, coming from above. We also attempt to stay hidden, but we're not foolish enough to believe they won't spot us.

This is the essence of my aspiration to create an impact. A positive distinction. Everyone might not consider it fair and while I may not be donning a uniform or badge, this is how I keep this town safe, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. I will always stand by my decision. Especially if it’s saving lives.

We're on our second try to figure out their destination. The motive could be to locate additional women or discard unnecessary ones. It induces such anger in me it makes me sick. But we hope this brings us to their head guy.

We reach the state line, but they suddenly veer off in a fast and unnatural manner. There’s enough distance to still see its taillights before speeding away.

Fuck. Here we go again.

Two armed men point their guns in our direction as the back doors of the van open. Great. I’ve barely recovered from the last time we got shot at.

They're now aiming to kill.

“Shit! Pull off. Pull off!” Charger shouts.

Dammit. We have to devise a more effective plan.

I maneuver my bike to escape the shooter's sight and onto a dirt road. I don’t stop to check and see if my brothers are okay because I hear their engines behind me and I know they’re close. This was one more failure. We need their whereabouts, but we’re doing a shit job.

I bring my motorcycle to a slow halt and wait for Charger and Tank to follow suit, dropping my foot to the side.

We catch our breaths, and Charger slams a fist to his handlebar. “Fuck!”

“We should consider another option. A better idea because I’ll be honest, I’m a little sick of getting shot at.”

With a crack of his neck, Tank slides a hand down his face. “Like a tracker. And I know the perfect person to ask.”

Within twenty minutes, we're standing in front of Bullet, who's seated with a syrupy pancake in his mouth. “A tracker?” he mumbles and raises a questionable brow. “You guys want to plant a tracking device on the same van Chain said to leave alone? Yeah, might have to count me out on this.”

I briefly glance toward my room on the upper floor. My first impulse was to run up there and burrow back into bed, holding Tequila against me, but I resist the temptation, unsure if it's pride or simply avoiding the obvious. No matter the cause, it makes me a coward. I might as well have left a twenty on her pillow thanking her for her service. It was the same.

I suck.

“Something needs to be done and we’re running out of time,” Charger pleads, hoping he’ll agree. Our Vice's extensive knowledge of tech is still a mystery, but we're grateful for it.

He sighs. “So, you want to see if these dirtbags are meeting up with their head honcho guy?” Bullet takes a sip of orange juice, wiping his mouth afterward.

“Yes. Or we’ll catch them in the act,” I say.

“Them snatching up the cargo,” Bullet finishes.

“They’re human beings, not pieces of furniture. Never refer to them as cargo again.” Charger clenches both fists, and I place a hand on his shoulder, watching the tension deplete. We’re running on edge.

“Sorry, man. I meant nothing by it.” Our Vice drops his fork to the plate. “I’ll agree, but only if I'm excluded from the situation. I want to stop this as much as you do, but if Chain learns his second in command went behind his back, I'm screwed. Funny, I’m doing a lot of black ops shit lately.” He aims a hardened glance at me.

“You don’t have to worry about being brought in,” I reassure him.

Bullet nods, showing our agreement. “Who’s the lucky guy who gets to plant the thing?” Of course. Someone has to sneak in there.

“Me.” I’m the best choice. Though I’m not scrawny, I am smaller than the Neanderthals. I won’t be clunking around like any of these big guys. It’ll be fast and silent.

“All right. I’ll let you know when I get it.”

While we go our separate ways, my dirt bike serves as the perfect outlet for my pent-up aggression. I’ll find Tequila later and talk to her, or maybe not. There’s nothing left to say. Only I can’t lose her completely. Even if last night was a mistake, it was one of the best I’ve ever made.

TWENTY-ONE

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