BOOM!
What sounded like a missile exploding thundered somewhere from behind us. My grip on the handlebar jolted.
The gas tank of the Cadillac.
The bike careened off course toward the side of the street. The wrecked car I'd seen earlier stood directly in our path.
Screaming, I yanked the handle and jerked us back to the road—narrowly avoiding a head-on collision, but knocking off the right rear-view mirror in the process.
I righted the bike, managing to go straight ahead for the next few blocks without crashing. Barely. I wanted to stop, but I couldn't. I knew they'd be after us. I needed to get us as far away from this place as possible.
The cold wind whipped my hair wildly and raised goosebumps on my skin. I briefly clasped my hand over Jax's hand around my waist, ensuring he was holding onto me. His arms squeezed against my sides weakly.
"Stay with me, Jax," I cried. "Just stay here with me."
My mouth felt like I'd been eating cotton balls. Fear gripped my insides. The orange glow of the streetlights shimmered above us as I turned onto a four-lane road.
"Jax?" I shouted out. "Is anyone following us? Can you see anyone?"
Behind me, Jax moved slowly. After a few seconds, he called back: "No. No one. Not that I can see, anyway . . ."
The Reapers were probably busy putting out the fire, giving us the head start we so desperately needed. As the sign for the freeway approached, I quickly turned onto the ramp, hoping the extra speed would lose them for good.
I pushed the throttle higher, propelling us toward the traffic on I-5. The cars whizzed by like bullets, leaving a draft in their wake that teetered the bike dangerously. Too scared to go faster, I found myself in the right lane, being passed in a blur by the traffic around me.
BEEEEEP!
A sharp horn blast from behind nearly made me jump off the bike. As I checked my mirror, I expected to see Darrel preparing to ram us. Instead, there was a teenage kid in a Honda Civic, passing us on the left like we were standing still.
"Learn to ride, asshole!" the kid called back, his mop-top head momentarily jutting out from the driver side window.
"What's going on?" Jax said, sounding dazed. "Why are you going . . . going so slow?"
I checked the speedometer, expecting to see the gauge at highway speed, but it was barely reaching forty. "It's hard to keep control of the bike! I don't want to go any faster than I'm going right now!"
"Faster is easier. More momentum . . . just . . . try faster. You'll see. Trust me."
I wanted to object, but feeling stuck between a rock and a hard place, I mentally crossed my fingers and pushed the throttle higher.
The engine growled as the bike picked up speed. Oncoming wind whipped my hair back and forced me to squint my eyes. The wobbling began to fade, and within moments, the bike seemed to stabilize.
Suddenly, a car lurched into our lane, cutting the bike off, and stopping my heart.
Clenching the handlebars in a death grip, I swerved, feeling the bike tilt beneath me.
"Fuck!" I screamed, zipping through a space between a car and a pickup truck.
When the offending car passed us, I broke into a cold sweat. But judging by the "I <3 LA" license plate, it didn't seem like one of the Reapers. Just an asshole L.A. driver.
Jesus. That prick could have killed us.
As I tried to calm my frantic heartbeat, I saw something beautiful just a little further ahead: six lanes of middle-of-the-night, empty, black Los Angeles freeway, just one blue Ford pickup truck away. A surge of adrenaline coursed through me as I pushed the bike past eighty.
"Eat my dust!" I cried to the truck, releasing newly pent-up frustration toward California drivers. The driver of the pickup flashed his middle finger at me as I watched him fade out of sight in the rear-view mirror. The further we went, the clearer it was getting that wherever the Reapers were, they hadn't followed us onto the highway. Their bikes were huge—and loud.
Before I could relax, I felt Jax's grip around my waist loosen.
"Keep talking to me, Jax," I called back to him nervously.
His arms squeezed tight again. His fingers were tense this time, almost clenched. From pain? I didn't know.
Finally, his words came out. "Just . . . get me home, okay? Take me home."
I shot a quick glance back at him with narrowed eyes. "But you're hurt!" I cried.
"I'm fine. Had worse nights than this." His voice sounded like he was gritting his teeth.
"Jax, I think we should take you to—"
Red-and-blue lights flashed in the mirrors, and a siren blast echoed through the night.
Oh god. No. It was the worst case scenario.
"Shit! The cops are right behind us!" I shouted to Jax.
I'd been so scared about the Reapers that I hadn't even thought about the police. But it all made sense. I'd committed arson and destroyed property. I was a criminal. A fugitive from justice.
But I couldn't go to jail. Not for this. Not now.
I pushed the throttle.
As the bike picked up speed, Jax grabbed my waist sharply. "No!" he shouted, more forceful than I'd heard him since his last interaction with Darrel. "Pull over to the side. Let me handle it."
Behind us, the sirens were close and getting closer. My head swam with terror. The world was collapsing around me, and there was nothing I could do about it.
Tears streamed down my eyes as I started pulling over to the side of the road.
This is it. End of the line.
My career was over, and so was Jax's. We'd be humiliated, disgraced in the tabloids. I'd have to move back in with my parents . . . if they'd even take me in after finding out their daughter was an arsonist. I'd get one phone call. I tried to remember Kristen's number. Could she bail me out, hire a lawyer? It would be mortifying to call her and Vincent, but they were my best hope.
As I slowed down, the sirens got impossibly loud and close behind me. Then a pair of cop cars sped past us like we didn't even exist. They zoomed off, chasing a red sports car further down the road.
I took a long, deep breath, trying not to sob with relief. What was I thinking? The Reapers were a biker gang. They'd probably committed worse crimes than arson. They probably wouldn't call the cops on us even if their lives depended on it—at least, I hoped not.
Releasing a breath of relief, I revved the engine. Feeling a little more confident on the motorcycle now, I found myself zipping deftly to pass cars and trucks. As I steered the bike off the interstate, I started to recognize the area near the Roman, where the bus was parked.
And that left just one obstacle: the guard at the gate. I breathed deep, trying to keep my emotions under control as I slowed down to stop at the security booth.