Page 56 of Biker's Prisoner: Property of Bucky

"Those kids attacked me, Ruger. They're sociopaths."

"What's a sociopath?" I ask yet another innocent question that sets off a black woman.

"That explains a lot," Zayna mutters harshly.

"What does it explain?"

"Nevermind," She responds huffily. "Yes, I'm scared of prison. I'm scared of Brooks. I'm scared that this will go wrong and..."

I press my finger to her lips. "Do you know why I tattooed your ass?"

She waits for my finger to drop away before she speaks. "Because you are extremely mentally ill?"

"And..." I reply, ignoring that rude comment. "It's a promise. I will never let anything happen to you. If I have to go to prison... I'll do it."

Her eyes get soft. Feminine. Like I gave her some permission to drop her harshness for a moment. I kiss her to seal in the softness. I understand why she's harsh but I like Zayna like this.I grab her cheeks and kiss her again. Mine. That's what that tattoo means. She's mine -- and I'm a good old American boy. I look after what's mine.

"What if he fights back?"

"He won't," I tell her. We're closer to our moment of action, so I can tell her what she needs to know about the plan.

"Brooks lives in a medically mandated single dormitory room close to the varsity football fields. He normally spends a couple hours on the mend after practice, has dinner with his friends and returns to his room... He'll be asleep when we get there."

Now she seems surprised.

"You planned this out?"

"Yes."

It's a murder. Better to do it with a plan.

Zayna getscalm enough to get on the back of the Indian Scout. I'll have to give her a pistol once we get there. I'm sure the presence of a gun will freak out her liberal sensibilities but... her gun won't be loaded. It will just be a huge help. I take us off road a bit to cut down on the drive to the sprawling college campus.

This place looks like it's out of a fucking fairytale or something. I swear, universities are more about wasting money than anything else, because I can't imagine this much masonry necessary to educate America's spoiled brats. Everywhere stinks of money and I don’t like it. Reminds me of the one time Doc took me to Mr. Hollingsworth’s house when I did a job at sixteen.

We ride around the 450 acre campus until I find the spot I searched out in advance where buildings and grounds management are unlikely to find even an Indian Scout. The good thing about a private school campus is lots of places to park.

I drive to the spot and when I park, Zayna hops off quickly. She takes off her helmet and scans our surroundings.

“Do you know where we are?” She asks. I take the helmet from her and then once her hands are close to me, I put one hand over hers, forcing Zayna to look me straight in the eye. You’re safe, baby.

“I know exactly where we are. Scouted on Google Maps.”

I stow the helmets as Zayna hovers.

“But Google Maps doesn’t show you where campus security searches…”

“It’s a private university with tuition that costs twice as much as this bike did brand new. Rich people don’t think anything bad could ever happen to them.”

I kiss Zayna on the forehead and when I pull away, she looks glum. If I weren’t right about the rich boys, we wouldn’t be in this situation.

“It’s already getting dark,” I whisper. Thank you to the season changes for making that happen right after I park the bike. Again, everything is going according to plan because out of all the folks I’ve killed in my life, this one will be the easiest. If everything goes the way I think it will, we won’t even need to clean up.

Tamiya sent me everything I need. Brooks Astor’s face is printed in my mind, filling me up with a type of hatred for all the men who looked down on me in the past. Officers when I first enlisted. Rich kids at school before that. The killing is easier when you give in to the anger.

Zayna watches carefully, with uncertainty I would expect from a woman new to crime, but relatively calm all things considered. I hand her the pistol unwrapped from my pack inside the Indian Scout and Zayna holds it all crazy, but with somewhat of a natural instinct to know not to hold her finger on the trigger or point the muzzle at me.

Still, she looks clumsy, and I’m glad the gun isn’t loaded.

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