Page 2 of Property of Saint

The first man turns to the one who’s remained silent and instructs, “Go and check.”

“You are doubting me?” I rasp out, straightening my back.

“It’s good you were concerned,” Thug One says, his voice dripping with theatrical solicitude. “But there could be a woman down there who needs help.”

Shit. They can’t go down and find her alive.I doubt my life would be long if they did. Now it’s my future health in the balance as much as hers. Again, I pull back my shoulders and use my most affronted voice. “I don’t have to be an ex-Army medic to recognise a live woman’s head shouldn’t be twisted so she’s staring over her back.”

“Go check.” The man I’m starting to hate issues the instruction again. And worse, he adds, “And you stay right where you are.”

“Why?” I ask innocently.

It takes him only a second to think fast. “Maybe it was you who drove her off the road.”

“Who said anyone drove her off the road?” I open my eyes wide. “And, man, car against motorcycle?” I gesture upward to where I’d left my bike. “If we had an altercation, it would be more likely me who was dead.”

As I hear his accomplice start gingerly down the steep slope, I begin calculating my odds, now there are only two against one. I’m armed, of course, one gun in a shoulder holster, one at my ankle, and a knife at my waist. But I’m outnumbered. I can seethey all carry weapons, and there’s no reason to doubt they know how to use them.

There’s no other way out. I’ve got to take my chance. I’ll give Thug Two the time to get a little bit further down the slope, then my odds will be much improved.Two against one.It wouldn’t be the first time. I begin tensing my muscles when suddenly…

BOOM

The surprise of the loud sound, the rush of hot air from below, sends us all staggering back.

Thug One is the first to recover. Although he’s at the other end of the flashlight, I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Guess that was the gas tank exploding. Whether or not you can recognise a dead body, she’s obviously very much so now.”

I should be pleased they seem to lose interest in me, but all I can think about ismy fucking cut. I left it with her.

Thrashing sounds, then the man who hadn’t got very far down appears again. “Guess our help isn’t needed after all.” In the headlights of their vehicle, I can see their satisfied faces.

Reunited as a group, they turn to stare at me. I’m not having to force the devastated expression on my face.My damn cut just exploded.Followed quickly by,how the fuck am I going to explain this to my prez?

As if having had some kind of mental conversation, they start to retreat up the steep incline, seemingly having dismissed me as any threat. I stay where I am, waiting until they disappear out of sight. I don’t move until I hear the roar of the engine start, peak as it’s revved, then eventually begins to fade. I stay where I am until the sound disappears completely.

Staring down at the flames that were rising high only a moment ago into the sky, I watch as they start to die, breathing in the acrid smoke of plastic and rubber that fuelled the fire.Godfuckin’damnit. What remains of my cut is down there.

Maybe it survived the explosion. Maybe there’s just one patch I might be able to retrieve. One of the three back patches I worked so hard to earn, or the VP insignia I was so proud to call mine. Maybe I’ll be lucky and the whole leather was thrown free.

Well, there’s only one fucking way to find out.

With a heavy sigh, I start my slip-sliding journey back down the steep incline. The area’s lit orange now, the light from the headlamps gone. I stand, hand thrown over my face to protect it from the heat, eyes surveying the ground.

I’d gotten the driver out but hadn’t dragged her far. Now, where I expect to find her body, the area is covered with debris, but nothing looks like it’s come from a human. I look around. Maybe I’ve gotten disoriented, and this is the wrong spot. I lift one foot to move to explore further when a voice sounds from behind me.

“You looking for this?”

Spinning around, I see the woman, somehow standing, her back resting against an undamaged tree, my cut held out, balanced on her fingers. I swear the relief that floods through me wants to make me kiss her here and now.

“Knew how much this means to you.”

That statement should be suspicious in itself, but hell, so many people have watched that old series on television and might have picked up the reverence in which we hold the particular item that identifies and defines us. Or maybe she’s no stranger to the biker lifestyle. I tamp down any doubts about her motives. However, she knew that my cut was precious to me, and she saved it when she could have just left it to burn.

Wasting no time, I take it from her, sliding it on, shaking my shoulders to shift the weight evenly, breathing easier when the familiar leather settles.

Only then do I ask, “How did you do that?” There’s more than one question in that enquiry. When I’d left her, I’d thought her incapable of moving, and to set such a spectacular fire?

She answers literally. “Gas burns, didn’t you know? Just lucky I had a full tank.”

I examine her in the flickering light that’s lingering. Her face is pinched with pain and, if anything, even more bloodied, one shoulder off to one side looking out of position, one ankle bent at an impossible angle, and the deep red patch on her jeans confirms she’s bleeding from somewhere other than her head.

---