Page 17 of Welker

His headlights had been on low as the bike approached, but as the distance closed, Welker hit his high-beams, lighting up the road ahead as well as the black-garbed rider.

He could easily see the bulky man now, and why wasn’t he surprised when the prick brought his bike to a stop, pulled something out from under his jacket and…

“Gun,” Welker shouted, before he ducked down, his windshield shattering all around him.

“Welk,” Moira’s almost frantic voice sounded from his dash. “Are you okay?”

“I am,” he growled, “but this asshole’s about to be toast.”

He hit the gas, fishtailing his back tires on the dirt, but…

What the fuck? In the time it had taken him to straighten out, Moira had backed up, punched the gas, and gone around him, heading toward the enemy with her foot in it.

Goddammit.

The rider must have been spooked at the aggressive move, because he spun his bike in the opposite direction, spewing dirt in an arc behind him as he goosed the throttle.

Moira’s truck came to an abrupt stop.

Cursing, Welk barely avoided plowing into her as he hit his brakes.

Swearing up a storm, his mouth fell open as he watched Moira thrust open her door, stand on the running board, and…

Two distinct shots echoed through the night.

The bike wobbled, slid, and…

Yes!

Welker was out of his vehicle in a heartbeat, gun raised, sprinting toward the downed rider, as was Moira, who was, of course, three steps ahead of him.

“Stay down, asshole,” she snarled, her weapon never wavering from its target. “I’d like nothing more than for you to move so I have an excuse to shoot you.”

Well, there was no ambiguity there, and apparently the rider thought so, too. He stayed on the ground, his hands held up in surrender.

Welk let her deal with the prick while he veered off to look for the man’s gun, which he’d either dropped—or jettisoned—into the bushes as he’d fallen.

“You have the right to remain silent…” Welk heard, as he spotted what he was looking for, withdrew nitrile gloves from a vest pocket and picked up the firearm. It was a .480 Ruger. Damn. These guys weren’t messing around.

Shaking his head, Welker went back to his still running truck, bagged the gun, then disconnected from the call with Moira which was still live, dialing up Mason.

There were no preliminaries.

“Did I hear gunshots?” Mason barked.

“Yeah, boss. A bogey on a bike came at us from nowhere. Took out my windshield, but that’s all he got. Moira blasted his rubber all to hell, and he’s down. She’s got him trussed up, reading him his rights, and waiting for you.”

“Dammit, Welk,” Mason grumbled. “I was just leaving, and imagining I might still get a little shuteye with what’s left of the night.”

“You? Sleep? Is that even a thing?” Welker shot back. They all knew their boss was a workaholic.

“Hah, hah.” There was a mocking sigh. “Listen. Don’t do anything stupid like kill the guy. We’ll be right there.” A slight pause ensued before… “How the hell do you figure the perp knew that you two were on the road?”

“Wondering the same thing myself, Chief, because I checked Moira’s truck for trackers, and there were none. Which means there had to be someone who was either watching from the trees around her house, or there’s a loose cannon in the sheriff’s department or on our team.”

Welker hated to think it was his group. SWAT was a tight-knit bunch, and the idea that someone might be on the MC’s payroll, didn’t sit well. The likelihood of it being Pickenstahl or that deputy were, at least in Welk’s head, much higher.

Welker tucked that puzzle-piece away for examination, later. Because right now, hopefully and with a little coercion, they might get some answers from the man who was under Moira’s boot.

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