Page 84 of Bad Attitude
“Goddammit, don’t be stubborn!” But Cole is helping him on with his bag, and everyone is ignoring me. I appeal to Kurt, knowing it’s futile even as I try. “Are you seriously going to let him ride?”
“It’s his call,” Kurt swings into the van as Cammy completes her three-point turn, and Dario and Cole leap in a minute later. “Get out of here, you two.”
They drive off the way we came in, while Declan steers his bike around the security car, heading outwest, per our plan.
I snap my visor down, cursing, and follow him.
“Stubborn fucking asshole.”
“Open mic,”Cammy reminds me.
Like I’d forgotten. But I grit my teeth, staying behind Declan as he hunches in his seat, riding one-handed, his other arm cradled across his tank.
“Take Coldwater Canyon,” I tell him. “Head for Tujunga.” It’smyescape route, not Declan’s—he was supposed to head southwest and pick up the 405 if it was safe to do so—but that’s too far to go. Not when he’s injured. Bleeding.
Thankfully, he doesn’t argue, or even reply. We zip across Santa Monica, taking the backroads, and I stay on his tail. The road is broad, empty, and easy riding, palm trees and big houses either side of us. We do ninety, hardly slowing down to cross Sunset, running red lights with no traffic around.
There’s no sign of the police. They’ll be enroute, a helicopter in the air in another few minutes, but they’ll be too late to know where we’ve gone. Cammy will drive the others back, nice and sedate, zero evidence if they’re stopped. In the city, they’ll already be out of range of comms, buildings blocking the signal.
We’re out clean, minus one unconscious security guard, who will hopefully wake with a concussion. Maybe he’ll be able to remember the van and bikes, but it was dark with lights in his eyes. Best he’ll be able to say is therewerebikes, but that’s not news, not after Palm Springs and the other jobs Kurt’s pulledover the years. Not just us, either—there was a spate of copycats a few months back, using bikes too. In LA, it only makes sense.
My thoughts are nonsense, I’m just trying not to think about Declan, riding ahead of me. Bleeding from his side and his fuckingthigh, a bullet still in it. What if he loses consciousness and comes off at these speeds?
We’re racing up Coldwater, the road’s mostly straight, and Declan’s not holding back.
“Slow down,” I tell him.
He jerks in his seat, checking his mirrors, clocking me.“You’re supposed to be heading west.”
“We’re clear, dammit, and I’m not leaving you.” That was more than I needed to say. “Slowdown. If you come off…”
“Is that concern in your voice, my little hellcat? I didn’t think you cared.”
I care. It’shimthat’s not supposed to.
It’s a shock to realize Idocare, when I’ve been telling myself otherwise. Turns out I was lying.
We’re already at Mulholland, and the plan was to turn east, staying on the back roads that spider through this part of LA. “Go north.”
His brake light comes on.“What?”
“Stay on Coldwater. Pick up the 101.”
“That’s not the plan.”
“Yeah? Well the plan’s gone to shit, and you’ve beenshot.”Stubborn bastard.“The 101 is the fastest way to Tujunga.”
He makes no reply but rides past the turn,heading north like I asked.“Are you inviting me back?”
“I’m getting you somewheresafe,” I say, gritting my teeth. How does he make this about us, when he’s fucking bleeding on his bike?
We pick up Coldwater Canyon Avenue, and now we’re descending. That puts our weight forward, onto his leg and side, and I can only imagine how much that hurts. Worse still, the road isn’t straight. There’s a sharp succession of bends, some hairpins, and he has no choice but to use his left hand, leaning the bike in. I hear him grunt over the comms, every gear change requiring his injured leg.
“Not long,” I tell him. “Opens up soon.”
“Yeah, I know.”
He rides around another sharp bend, hissing in pain loud enough for the mic to pick it up.
