Page 48 of Penny for Your Saints

“Best fucking demo man in the business!” Frank hoots his hurrah, revving the bike into a higher gear as we approach the opening of the transit tunnel.

Satisfied that I have a moment to look away, I turn my attention to something warm and wet spreading across my right knee up to my thigh.

A cursory inspection of the black denim only yields the existing information: Warm, wet,soaking the leg of my jeans so that it shines like the hide of a seal.

Then I see it, the telltale bullet hole in the sleeve of Frank’s jacket—the blood flowing in gouts from his shoulder onto my leg below.

“Frank, that’s not a fucking graze!” I shout, my stomach tightening at the sight of so much of Frank’s blood spilling onto me.

“Yeah, well—there’s not a whole lot we can do about it right now,” he grits out, weaving us through the sparse traffic entering the tunnel. The station wagon is doing its best to keep up as we make our way toward the line of wooden sawhorse dividers topped with flashing lights that separate the artery for tunnel construction and maintenance workers from the main transit line.

Frank slows, allowing the other Saints to take the lead; the station wagon blasting through the flimsy wood and plastic barriers without any difficulty—Frank weaving through the debris as we zoom after them.

Seeing that we’ve had no direct pursuit down the service artery, Caz pulls over to the side less than a half mile into the sub-tunnel; his tires screeching as he comes to an abrupt halt—Frank sliding sideways into a stop just behind the stopped Volvo.

I move to holster my guns, to steady him as he dismounts the motorcycle.

“Eyes up!” he yells at me, slumping awkwardly off the bike with a wince—his left arm hanging limply at his side as blood runs from his fingers.

“Get him in the car and someone fucking stop that bleeding!” My sigma bark carries over the loud ambient noise of the tunnel—Seb and Q scramble from the car to collect the bleeding Frank as the echo of rumbling engines begins to crescendo—a sure indication that we were not yet out of the woods.

I dismount the bike, half-crouching behind it—arms propped on the black leather seat to steady my aim as I lay in wait.

As two more nondescript black sedans with ballistics glass windows make their way down the amber-lit tunnel corridor, the greasy orange lights flickering over the dark glass and mirror sheen paint job, Seb scuttles in beside me, taking what shelter his broad, muscular frame can take behind the sleek motorcycle.

“Get down, cover your ears,” he warns me, reaching into his bag of exploding tricks to retrieve a nearly spherical looking device.

Sébastien springs to standing, throwing the mysterious orb like a shot put down the tunnel toward the rapidly approaching cars as a hail of sloppy gunfire issues from both shining black vehicles.

I’ve seen what kind of damage Seb’s little homecraft bombs can do, so I hit pavement, putting my belly on the ground, squeezing my shoulders up to my ears and covering my head with my arms, guns still in hand—a sliver of visibility beneath one of my arms, through the wheels of the motorcycle, shows the brilliant orange plumes of flame that overturn the first of the two black sedans.

“Ta grand mere!” Sébastien screams as the first car spirals into the curvature of the concrete tunnel wall, blossoming into a massive auto-fire, belching black smoke.

The second pursuit vehicle nearly goes ass-over-teakettle as it spins into an emergency stop just behind the wall of flame created by the first destroyed car.

These fuckers just won’t quit, though. I’d been hoping Seb’s work asboom scholarwould have been enough, but a team of 5 agents—some in impact helmets and goggles, some in ball caps and shades, burst through the smoke and breaks in the wall of flame, hell bent on stopping us.

“Get to the car Seb!” I press up from the ground, peering carefully over the seat of the bike as one of the agents shoots and narrowly misses the gas tank. A few paces more, and he won’t miss.

“And what about you, eh?” he protests, hand already rooting around in the bag of boom for another weapon.

“I’ll cover you getting to the car—then I take care of these assholes so we can make a clean break. Promise.”

Seb’s mouth sets in a hard line—those chocolate brown eyes fixing me with an accusatory glare that might as well say,and why should I trust you?

I’m not sure what compels me to do what I do next. Perhaps it’s the adrenaline, or my imminent heat, or the way Seb’s bottom lip looks so beautiful—full and juicy—but I lean in, gun still in hand, and hook my wrist around the nape of his neck—bringing his face to mine, our mouths meeting in a momentary crush, his tongue sweeping unexpectedly into my mouth as I catch his lower lip in my teeth; not hard enough to break skin, to bite, to bond, but enough to make clear the earnestness of my promise.

I force myself to break the kiss and pull away—the two of us blinking away the intensity of the moment before I snap.“There’ll be more where that came from—but you need to trust me. Now get in the fucking car!”

Without protest—Seb skitters back to the station wagon as I pop up from behind the motorcycle, guns blazing—like some kind of jack-in-the-box from hell.

One by one, three of the four agents soak up my bullets before dropping to the pavement in the golden-amber drenched light of the tunnel. The last fires a one shot into the gas tank of the bike, and then another; forcing me to abandon my hiding place lest I risk clinging to the bike as it explodes.

I peel away from the bike just as I hear the telltale clatter of the agent’s empty magazine hitting the pavement. I dig in, turning my body toward him—my shoulder slamming into his chest just beneath his chin before he can manage to re-load.

In a desperate attempt for control, the wiry, but strong agent drops his useless gun and wraps his arms around me in a tight bear hug—forcing my arms against my sides as he braces me against him.

Not good enough. One of my guns is pressed against his body, the other pointed toward the ground but at a bad angle. I let out an animal cry, and he makes an awful gurgling noise as I jam the muzzle of one of my guns into his stomach, firing off several rounds before I fall to the ground with him; still trapped in his arms.

---