Even on the low hog, such weaving twisties were child’s play for Quinn and he leaned from side to side, darting back and forth among the traffic in a sort of zigzagging dance. He added power, accelerating to feel the pavement whir just inches beneath his knees as he leaned the bike into each shallow turn. If not for the fact that he was chasing a man whose blood carried a virus that could wipe out the entire western hemisphere, it would have been fun.
“Jacques, are you with me yet?” Quinn yelled into the Bluetooth, wind whipping his face.
“Five by five, beb.”
“Outstanding,” Quinn yelled, keeping his voice up to be heard over the rush of oncoming wind. On the back of the speeding bike it was like trying to talk during a hurricane. “I’m still behind him… going east on Harley Avenue around the back side of Trinity Park. We’re heading toward University Drive.”
“Half a mile back,” Thibodaux said. “We’re comin’ up on Montgomery and Harley now. I got the doc with me.”
Jericho started to ask about the prisoners but decided he didn’t care. He had his hands full with the Night Rod and miles of flesh-eating pavement.
Focused as he was on the fleeing Zafir, Quinn didn’t see the black pickup screaming up from behind until it was almost on top of him.
Ride like everyone is on crack and trying to kill you. It was a mantra he and his brother had repeated to each other hundreds of times growing up in a motorcycle family. His father had drilled it into both of them as boys. As it turned out, the approaching pickup had exactly that in mind.
Quinn leaned hard to his right, scraping a metal foot peg on asphalt as he took the sharp turn into the tree-lined park. Moving too fast to react, the oncoming truck shot past the intersection. It slammed on the brakes, tires squealing and smoke pouring from the rear of the vehicle as the driver threw it into reverse and tore backward toward the turnoff.
In the vibrating side mirror Quinn saw the pickup pass the intersection, then slide to a stop on the gravel shoulder, only to peel out and turn to fall in behind him again, pouring on the gas.
Quinn gritted his teeth. On the bike, he’d have the advantage of maneuverability and speed, but the truck could make mistakes. If Quinn made one, he’d go down and at these speeds that would spell disaster.
He cursed himself for not expecting something like this. Kalil had had more than one person backing him up. Zafir would surely have more than the two losers stupid enough to get caught in front of Navarro’s house.
“We have company,” Quinn shouted into his headset as the gleaming silver truck grill loomed larger and larger in his side mirror. “Black Chevy pickup. Newer model.”
“We’re coming up on the park now,” Thibodaux said, worry stitching his voice.
“Don’t fret about me,” Quinn shot back, as the pickup bore down on him. “I lost sight of Zafir about ten seconds ago.” His heart sank as he spoke the words. “He was heading east toward University. You stick with him. I’ll handle this guy.”
Forty feet behind him, the black Chevy closed the gap. In the thick of Trinity Park now, Quinn cut between two trees, leaving the pavement to take a red gravel jogging path to his right. He heard the roar of the big block engine behind him and ducked between a picnic table and a public toilet to avoid getting flattened. Unable to negotiate the narrow pass, the pickup had to go wide, overcorrecting and bouncing across the manicured lawns. Gunfire clattered through the perfect rows of oak trees as the passenger stuck the pug barrel of a submachine gun out the window.
“Don’t worry, Chair Force,” Thibodaux’s voice came across the Bluetooth. “We got Zafir in our sights. He’s going south on University.”
Quinn didn’t have a chance to register the good news. The truck bounced around the stone toilet buildings, coming in at an angle now from the opposite direction. He could see the gun barrel bobbing out the open window as the passenger continued to fire in short, deadly bursts.
Quinn let off the throttle long enough to draw his Kimber and transfer it to his left hand. As the pickup came around the second bank of toilets, he leaned in, riding toward it, keeping a line of picnic tables in between them to avoid getting run down. The Kimber held eight rounds and Quinn used all of them to spray the open window as the two vehicles passed each other like jousting knights.
He didn’t have time for this. Zafir was getting away.
The passenger side of the windshield turned white from the impact of the 10-millimeter rounds. The machine gun tumbled out the window and the shooter collapsed, both arms flailing loosely in the wind.
For a moment Quinn thought he’d hit the driver, but the pickup continued to move, throwing up a cloud of dust. It spun around, coming back for another try.
Quinn downshifted, realizing his gun was dry. The speed and agility of the Night Rod were his only allies. He’d have to stop the bike to change magazines, and in the time it took to do that the Chevy would run him down. Worse, Zafir would be as good as gone.
The chest-thumping roar of an oncoming Harley suddenly shook the trees. Quinn’s head snapped to the left, astounded to see his brother materialize like an apparition from a thicket of cottonwoods, ripping in from the far edge of an open field.
Bo’s lips were drawn back in a youthful grin. His denim vest flapped in the wind. He pointed toward the black pickup as he bore down, making quick eye contact with Jericho. Sizing up the situation, Bo used a technique he called kissing. It was akin to what professional drivers called pitting—using one vehicle to strike another in just the right spot to cause the driver to lose control. On a motorcycle, the move required more finesse — and the result was a little different.
Instead of striking the Chevy, Bo maneuvered alongside it, keeping his bike about three feet away and in the driver’s blind spot. About the same time the driver realized there was another motorcycle in the picture, he yanked the wheel hard over, trying to run down his new adversary. Instead of trying to evade, Bo accelerated, angling toward the pickup and rolling effortlessly over the side and into the bed. He came up on his knees as the Harley tumbled out of control and slammed into an oak tree with a sickening crash.
Before the driver could react, Bo shot him three times through the back glass. He looked up at Jericho, who now rode alongside the bouncing pickup, nodding toward the twisted remains of the motorcycle with a grimace.
“Don’t try that with my bike!” Bo yelled above the wind. The truck was already beginning to slow. “Now go! I’ll take care of this.”
“Tell me you have eyes-on, Jacques.” Jericho took to the pavement again, racing through the Botanical Gardens and turning east again to try and cut the gap between himself and the others. He caught the green light at University and flew into the intersection heading toward the spaghettilike maze of highways a block to the south. Quinn knew that if he was on the run, that’s the direction he’d go. He gambled that Zafir would do the same, scanning the trees and side streets. Cars moved lazily up and down the four-lane under the glare of a morning sun. They showed no evidence that a motorcycle had just sped past.
“Jacques!” Quinn called out again as the maze of buttressed overpasses and sweeping concrete ramps loomed in front of him. “Coming up on the freeway now. You’ve gotta tell me which way to go!”
“West! West!” Thibodaux’s gumbo-thick voice flooded across the Bluetooth in Quinn’s ear. “Take a left on the West Freeway, then keep left onto I-30. We’re still on the freeway running alongside. Doc’s runnin’ the GPS. She says we got another ramp a mile or so ahead where we can join you.”
“You still have eyes-on, right?”
“Roger that,” Thibodaux said. “We’re on the road above him. Can’t get to him from where we are, but I can see the son of a bitch plain as day, rippin’ down the interstate like he don’t have a care in the world.”