Page 115 of Dizzy

The Raiders firm their stance and free their pieces. A few of the less sober guys look wildly for an exit, but the camps are pitched too close. We’re hemmed in by a line of bikes, a city of tents, and a bonfire.

Rab grabs my arm and drags me in front of him. There’s no knife at my back anymore, but I’m staring down a mob of armed bikers. Shotguns. Pistols.

I hope they know what they’re doing.

Or what if they don’t care if I’m collateral damage? Wouldn’t that be just what Heavy wants? If I get caught in the crossfire, I can’t tell anyone about Chaos.

My gaze darts back to Dizzy. His mouth is cast in a grim line, but his eyes speak. My panic ebbs. He’s not gonna let anything happen to me. Iknowit.

“They ain’t stoppin’,” a prospect squeaks. “Fuck this.” He vaults over a bike and races off.

“Stand your ground, men,” Rab urges. “They ain’t gonna shoot in front of all these people.”

Dizzy’s focus has turned to Rab. He’s still yards away, but I can read his face like a book. He’s gonna destroy this man who dares to touch me.

He’s come for me. My heart soars.

Everything slides into place as he skids to a stop about an acre away, resting his shotgun on his forearm, aiming it straight at my head.

“Trust me,” he shouts.

“I do.” It’s a whisper. He can’t possibly hear me over the roar of men and engines, but he smiles, keeping his eyes glued on mine.

It’s so clear. What he said that day at the stream, he meant. I belong to him. He’ll always come for me.

And he’ll take these motherfuckers out, one way or another.

“He’s gonna shoot!” Dober shouts.

“Run!” Rab bellows. Someone digs his hands into my shoulders. “Leave her, you dumbass! They’re behind us! Scatter!”

“Drop!” Dizzy roars.

I fall to the ground. Before I hit the dirt, I catch a glimpse as he raises the shotgun, pumps it, and fires a shot into the air with a firm and steady hand, his leather jacket flapping open in the wind, every inch a cowboy on a steel horse.

I curl up and cover my head, squeezing my eyes closed, and a thunderous crack echoes in the mountains.

“He’s crazy! He’s racking another round! He’s aiming. Go! Go!” a man shouts, and there’s pandemonium as everyone left in the vicinity scatters.

Feet pound by my head, and I huddle as small as I can. There’s scuffling, grunts, but no other gunshots. I peek up.

Shouts and screams ring out in the crisp air. The wail of sirens swells in the distance. The music plays on, and the crowd chants the lyrics, oblivious.

It’s anarchy. Tents have toppled. One fell and caught fire. Flames shoot up, along with a column of pitch-black smoke. Fights have broken out. Bikes are roaring through the confusion as people flee, and others rush over to save their shit.

A few dudes, high as hell, are whooping as they pitch burning logs into the tents that are still standing.

It’s mayhem.

Miraculously, no one seems to have been hurt.

I find my feet. There’s so much shit going on, my brain can’t sort through it all.

Where is Dizzy?

There.

Still forty yards away. The anarchy has spawned a chain of brawls, and another club is riding through off to the side—slow as shit and very careful—trying to escape the chaos.

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