The Alpha Bodyguards Books #4-6

Chapter Nine

U sing a trick I ’d learned from a hospital corpsman downrange, I grabbed her hand before it fell from my waist and pinched the skin between the thumb and forefinger hard enough to leave a mark.

Her body jerked awake behind me. “Ow!”

“Stay alert,” I warned. “Or I’ll drop you on the side of the road.”

Silence.

I wove between two more cars and a group of pedestrians before checking the side-view mirror. “You hear me?” No cops behind us. Yet.

“I heard you.” Thready, weak, her voice was barely audible over the wind.

“What’s your name?”

Her back stiffened. “Does it matter?”

“Depends.” I sailed through an intersection and passed the long line of cars waiting to pull into the first parking lot.

Her hand barely held on to my waist. “On?”

“If you want me to notify someone if you die.” Her arm wound wouldn’t kill her. But the second shot might.

She let out a strangled laugh. “If anyone finds my body, they’ll know who I am.”

I frowned. She was someone. “Who are you running from?”

“Bad guys.” She swayed.

I gripped the motorcycle one-handed and shook her arm. “Stay awake. Almost there.”

“I’m awake,” she slurred.

“Who are they?” I asked again, noticing a black motorcycle gaining on us that hadn’t been there a minute ago. “Were there more than two of them?” I needed to know what I was dealing with.

“There’s always more.”

“Be more specific,” I ordered.

She didn’t respond.

I shook her arm again. “Answer the question, or I’m leaving you here.”

Humid south Florida air rushing past us, the second parking lot entrance coming into view, she still didn’t respond.

Banked turn, forty-five degree angle, three seconds to complete the turn—she wasn’t going to make it.

My options dwindled.

Lay the bike down, don’t make the turn, or take a risk.

I glanced in the mirror.

The black bike gunned it.

I glanced at oncoming traffic.

Velocity, weight, momentum, distance… timing.

There was only one choice.

I pulled the clutch, shifted, then let go of the left side of the handlebars and grabbed her arm as I hit the throttle and turned.

We shot right, into oncoming traffic.

Swerving the bike, cutting it sharp, her unconscious body flew left and her shoes followed. Holding her, holding the bike, ignoring the blaring horns and screeching brakes, I kept the throttle gunned and cut back to the left.

The momentum swung her body back, and I slipped through traffic back into the correct lane and made the turn into the parking lot without her falling off the bike.

People yelled, cars braked, pedestrians jumped out of the way.

The black bike missed the turn.

I gunned it down the outer aisle of the lot until I saw my rented SUV. Still holding her arm, her weight against my back, I slowed at my rental and hooked an arm around her waist at the same time as I cut the engine, dropped the bike and stepped us clear of it. The Yamaha slid a few feet across the grass and half fell down a canal.

Her weight against me, her legs dragging, I reaching in my pocket as I rushed us toward the rear of the SUV.

A car pulled up alongside us and the window went down as the driver looked between the bike and the girl. “Oh shit, dude, you okay?” He nodded at the girl. “She good? That was a close call. You almost hit the SUV.”

It wasn’t close. It was calculated. “We’re fine.” I unlocked the rented vehicle. “She had too much to drink.”

“I get it, man.” The guy glanced at the bike. “You need help with your bike?”

“No, I’ll get her home and come back for it later,” I lied. “Thanks anyway.” I moved us quickly around the SUV and opened the passenger side.

When the car pulled away, I opened the rear and carried the girl to the back. Setting her in the cargo area, I checked her wrist for a pulse.

Nothing.

I checked the pulse point on her neck.

Nothing.

I held my hand under her nose.

No breath.

Blood on the corner of her mouth, I thought about CPR for less than half a second before I shut the lift gate and rounded the SUV.

Three back motorcycles pulled into the lot. One cut north, one went straight and one turned down the far aisle I was in, speeding down the row of parked cars.

Ducking into the driver side, I tossed my cap in back and palmed my 9mm as I slumped behind the wheel.

Scanning left and right, his face covered by a full helmet, the motorcyclist glanced at the SUV, but didn’t catch the tail end of the Yamaha behind us.

He sped down the aisle and cut left to the next row.

Reaching behind my seat for the go bag I carried everywhere, I fished out a clean T-shirt and put it on. Starting the SUV, I pulled out in the opposite direction as the motorcyclist, but not before I noticed the bike didn’t have a license plate.