Chapter 4 - Delilah #2
The bikes are trying a new formation now: two on the left, one on the right, spreading out wide like they're trying to give themselves multiple angles of attack.
Graham sees it happening and doesn't react beyond a slight tightening of his grip on the steering wheel.
"When they make their move," he says to me, his voice calm and steady, "there's going to be a lot of noise. Possibly gunfire. Possibly impact. I need you to stay down again. Get as low as you can, cover your head, and don't move until I tell you it's safe."
"What about you?"
"I'll be fine. I've done this before."
"You've been in car chases while protecting witnesses from biker gangs before?"
"Variations on the theme. Close enough."
He's trying to make me feel better, I think. Trying to inject some levity into a situation that is objectively terrible. It shouldn't work.
It kind of does anyway.
I unbuckle and slide down into the footwell again, making myself small, wrapping my arms over my head.
The position is uncomfortable and makes me feel even more helpless than I already did, but I do it anyway because Graham asked me to and so far every single thing he's asked me to do has kept me alive.
"Good," Graham says. "Stay just like that."
The engine noise changes pitch as he accelerates. The bike engines get louder as they pull closer. I can hear shouting now, muffled through the car's frame but definitely shouting.
Then gunshot.
The sound is impossibly loud even inside the car, and I scream before I can stop myself. My whole body goes rigid with terror.
"They're shooting at the tires," Graham says, still impossibly calm. "Trying to disable us. Won't work. Diesel keeps run-flat tires on all the civilian vehicles for exactly this reason."
Another gunshot. Then another. The car doesn't slow, doesn't swerve, doesn't behave like it's been hit at all.
"Sixty seconds," Graham says, and I don't know if he's talking to me or to himself. "Come on, Judge. Any time now."
The bike engines are right next to us now. So close I can hear them over my own heartbeat, over my breathing, over everything. One on each side. One behind. Exactly like Graham predicted.
They're going to force us to stop.
They're going to drag me out of this car.
They're going to—
A new sound cuts through everything else. Different engines. Deeper. More of them.
Motorcycles. But different ones.
"There we go," Graham says, and there's satisfaction in his voice now. Grim satisfaction. "Right on time."
I hear shouting. Engines revving. The screech of tires on pavement. More shouting and shooting. Everything blending together into chaos that my brain can't process while I'm curled up in a footwell with my arms over my head.
Then silence.
Not complete silence. The sedan's engine is still running. There are still voices outside. But the immediate threat, the pressure, the feeling of being hunted, it's gone.
"You can sit up now," Graham says.
I uncurl slowly, my muscles protesting from being compressed, and climb back into the seat. Look around. We're stopped at an intersection. Miller and Fifth, presumably. And surrounding us are motorcycles. Four of them. Big men in leather cuts with the Iron Phoenix patches on their backs.
The Vipers' bikes are scattered: one on its side, two stopped with their riders off the bikes and on their knees with hands behind their heads, clearly being detained by the larger men who must be Graham's backup.
It's over.
We're safe.
The realization hits me all at once and suddenly I can't breathe right. Not from fear this time. From relief so overwhelming it physically hurts.
Graham is out of the car before I can process what's happening. He's talking to one of the other bikers, a massive man who must be Brick based on the sheer size of him.
Another man approaches the passenger side and taps on my window. I nearly jump out of my skin before I see his face, older, sharp features, concerned expression. He gestures for me to roll down the window.
I do, my hands still shaking.
"I'm Judge," he says. His voice is surprisingly gentle for someone who looks like he could break a person in half. "You're Delilah, right?"
I nod, not trusting my voice yet.
"You did good," he tells me. "Ranger says you followed instructions, stayed calm, didn't panic. That's not easy when people are shooting at you."
"I panicked a little," I admit.
"Everyone panics a little. The trick is doing what you need to do anyway." He glances back at Graham, who's still talking to Brick. "We're going to get you to the clubhouse now. Somewhere safe. Somewhere with walls and security and people who know how to keep you protected. That sound good?"
It sounds impossibly good.
It sounds like something I didn't think existed anymore: actual safety, actual protection, actual people who mean it when they say they'll keep me alive.
"Yeah," I manage. "That sounds good."
Judge nods and steps back, giving Graham some kind of signal I don't catch. Graham nods and heads back to the sedan, sliding into the driver's seat.
"Ready?" he asks me.
"I don't think I've been ready for any of this," I tell him honestly.
He almost smiles. Almost. "Fair enough. But we're going anyway."
He starts the engine and falls into formation with the other bikes: two in front, two behind, creating a protective convoy with us in the center.
And for the first time since I witnessed David Miller's murder, I think maybe, just maybe, I'm going to survive this after all.