Page 1 of Rafe: Sins of the Father

PROLOGUE

Rafe—

Traffic comes to a stop on the West Valley Freeway, so I brake and shift to neutral, planting my boots on the pavement and wondering what the hold up could be. Sitting in traffic always sucks, but especially in the heat of July.

I need to get to the clubhouse. Cole called church, and I’m already running late.

Lane splitting is legal in California, but it’s always a risk running into some asshole who decides to door check me. Still, I need to get to the clubhouse, so I drop my bike in gear and hit the throttle, running between lanes.

I take it easy on my speed and zoom past car after car. I get a few angry honks, but mostly I sail by with no problem. The closer to the front of the line I get, a plume of smoke becomes obvious, rising ahead of me.

When I round a curve and reach the holdup, I find a car flipped on its driver side, the roof wedged against the metal guardrail that divides north and southbound lanes. Flames rise from the engine. Two men are out of their vehicles, trying to break the passenger window, to no avail.

I’m off my bike in a second and dashing to the car, taking in the Mercedes emblem on the trunk. It’s a four-door sedan. I peer inside to ascertain how many passengers there are, but only see the driver. He looks frantic, grabbing at this seatbelt.

One guy is beating on the window with his hand. “Unlock the door!”

I shove the two men out of the way and pull my Glock. “Stand back.”

Their eyes widen at the sight of the weapon, and they scramble away. Vaulting up on the car to get a clear shot, I take aim at the rear window and fire several rounds, shattering the glass, then kick the rest of it out with my boot. Placing my gloved hands carefully on the frame, I lower myself through the opening.

“Oh, God. Don’t let me burn,” the driver mutters. He’s middle-aged with thinning hair and wearing a suit.

A hissing noise whistles, and I wonder if the gas tank is about to be breached. I may only have seconds before it blows.

I yank my knife from the sheath at my hip and cut through the seatbelt, then haul the driver over the seat and lift him into the waiting hands of the other two men.

Once he’s pulled through, I heave my body up and out the window, and dash after the men carrying the driver to the grassy shoulder.

We’re barely clear when the gas tank explodes, sending metal shrapnel raining down.

Instinctively, I dive over the driver, covering him with my body.

When I pull the man to a sitting position, the distant wail of sirens carries to us.

“You okay?” I search his face. He’s shaking, but other than the shock, he seems all right.

“Are you the one who pulled me out?” he asks, his faded blue eyes locking with mine.

“Yes, sir. Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay. A little knocked around is all. I couldn’t get the seatbelt open, and I couldn’t find the door lock button.”

“You panicked. It’s understandable. Just glad we got you out.” I glance back at his vehicle. “Your car’s a total loss, though. What happened?”

“Some joker cut me off. I almost hit him, then over corrected and spun out in the gravel on the shoulder. When I cut back, it flipped on its side. It was quite a ride, son.”

I grin. “I’ll bet.”

His gaze drops to my leather cut, and he frowns, then spots my bike. “You in one of those biker clubs?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nods. “Well, you did a good deed today, and I’ll never forget it. I’m grateful.”

“No problem. Glad I could help.”

“You do that often?”

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