Page 83 of The Oath We Take

I make note of the name.

I aim my weapon at the truck and fire off several rounds, shattering the side window and hitting the door in loud metallic pings. But I must have missed the driver because, other than a quick swerve, the truck stays on the road.

I hear fire from the street too as Catfish joins me. He manages to blow out the back window of the truck and a taillight, but the vehicle picks up speed and swerves around the corner out of sight.

“Watch her for me,” I shout as I run to my bike.

“I’m coming with you,” he says, as I tug my half-face helmet over my head.

“No. Protect the town and Ember.”

Ember’s safety is my priority, but there are many ways that can be achieved. By staying here to look after her, or by trusting her to my brother’s care and giving chase to the men who would hurt her.

I jump on my bike and race after the truck. I’m not a hundred percent certain where they’re headed, but if they didn’t get what they want here, my guess is they’re headed back toward Denver. At the junction, I take a left, headed east towards the city.

“Where are you motherfuckers?” I mutter as I fly down the country road that leads to the highway. It has twists and turns, and I lean into each and every one of them, my knee skirting the asphalt.

There’s a oneness between man and bike. It becomes an extension of your thoughts, a piece of who you are. And I’d trust my bike against their truck anytime.

They must have driven the long way around town to drive in from the west, avoiding the patrol we have on the incoming road from Denver.

But as I turn the next bend, I see the truck, stationary, in the middle of the road. At the speed I’m travelling, it’s unexpected and dangerous, and my heart rate skyrockets. There’s only one thing I can do to avoid driving straight into the back of it and killing myself.

Drive off the road and take my chances in a tall field of corn.

Little can stop a machine travelling at a hundred miles an hour. I hammer and release the brake, attempting to slow myself down before I hit the hard dirt. The bike hits a rut and throws me over the handlebars while it falls to its side and spins in a different direction.

I land hard on my back, the impact knocking the wind out of me. But the corn stems act like an aggressive safety net, breaking my fall with more firmness than my body needs.

The good news is, I don’t slide across the dirt—a recipe for losing skin. While I doubt my denim shirt is going to be worn ever again, the corn saves me from a skin graft.

“Fuck,” I gasp. When I bought this helmet, I got it because I thought it looked cooler than a full helmet. Now, I’ve never been more grateful for the high-strength shell and multi-density safety buffer that’s the reason my skull isn’t cracked open.

Bullets hit the ground beside me, spitting dirt that rains down on my face before I’ve even realized I’m being shot at. I scramble to my feet, while crouching low to the ground, and head into the corn. Shots are fired, but none make it through the stalks before I hear the roar of the truck engine.

When I realize they’re gone, I try to run to my bike. Thinking that I can catch up again, and how it’s going to be easier to spot them with the bullet holes and shattered windows.

Until I put weight on my ankle and realize just how badly everything hurts. I try to suck in a breath and wonder if I haven’t broken one of my ribs.

I trace my way out of the cornfield and find my bike, still running, on its side. It’s unpleasant work, wheeling it out of the field. Everything hurts, and the bike feels like it weighs three times more than it usually does.

By the time I’m back on the road, sweat pools at my temples and soaks the back of my shirt.

I replay my actions in my head. Going after them fast was my only option. Too slow and I would have lost them. But I hadn’t anticipated them being smart enough to think of blocking the road with their truck.

I failed Em.

That’s my overwhelming thought.

The realization I could have died today flashes through me, but I bury it beneath the shame I feel at not achieving my goal of ending this for her.

Thankfully, my bike is drivable, if a bit battered. Gingerly, I climb onto it, ignoring the ache in my shoulder and back. I feel every bump in the road as I try to get back to Em as quickly as possible.

But my nerves are rattled. Getting thrown over my bike is something I don’t want to repeat.

When I get there, Catfish is watching from the upstairs balcony, weapon drawn.

“Shit, you okay?” he asks, holstering his gun and running down the steps to help me off the bike.

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