Jazz tensed, and her good arm wrapped around Morgan’s waist tightened. “What’s going on?” she whispered.
“Good question,” he said in a low voice. He kept the engine running gently. She wondered what he was going to do. He’d run with a tough crowd for a long time. He was no one to mess with and all of the local members knew that. Maybe that’s why the shooter was staying back. Smart. If he had to, then he could take this guy but if the asshole had a gun, well, shoot enough times and some were bound to find their mark.
“Let’s turn around and get out of here,” she said in a loud voice to make sure he could hear her.
“Can’t do that,” he said calmly. “If I turn around, he might shoot you in the back.”
She gasped. She hadn’t considered that.
“Then what?” she cried. “We can’t just stay here like this.”
Just then, as if someone from inside the houses called, police sirens sounded in the distance. They were getting closer. She willed them to hurry.
The biker on the far side shifted his weight and revved up his bike.
Morgan turned his wrist, letting the power of his own engine roar through the bike. If this was a macho testosterone contest, she wasn’t interested in seeing who won.
“Please,” she cried out. “Let’s leave.”
Morgan shook his head. “No. No more. He’s been chasing us for too damn long.”
“And this is going to make it better?” she asked, her voice rising at the end. “How does that make any sense?”
“We need to know who he is and where he’s going.”
“I don’t want to get shot again,” she muttered, trying to talk to him in a low, calm voice. “This is suicidal.”
The sirens sound louder and louder. They’d be here in a few minutes. She didn’t want to talk to them. What was she going to say? Then she realized that Morgan was rolling the bike slowly backward. She watched for a reaction from the other guy, grateful that Morgan appeared to being sensible. “Thank you.”
Then the engine ripped to life, throwing her slightly backwards as he lifted the front tire. Using the heavy machine as a shield, he raced forward.
“Shit. Shit.” She’d so hoped he’d been retreating. Apparently not. She tightened her grip. In the darkness of the night, both bikes screamed revved. She couldn’t see what the other guy was doing, but she hoped he was racing away. She peered over Morgan’s shoulder. The bike was racing toward them. Shit.
As she ducked down behind Morgan, she realized the other man had a gun in his hand pointed at them. Damn it. Morgan was going to get shot!
Just as the two were heading for a head on collision and she wondered at the sensibility of throwing herself off the side of the bike, Morgan did a complete 180 degree turn and spun around just as they came abreast of the other biker and then spun around again, still keeping the big machine in front of him.
The other biker ripped past them without a shot fired.
Jazz watched him disappear into the night, relief pounding through her brain. Oh, thank heavens. She hadn’t wanted to get into a confrontation. All she wanted at this time was to go into her house, pack up a bag, and get the hell out again.
That the shooter knew where she lived and knew they’d been on the way to the same place was damn scary. She had no intention of staying there – especially not alone – until this asshole was caught.
As the relief and trembling about their near escape filtered through her mind, she realized something else. Morgan wasn’t slowing down and heading into her driveway, he was ripping down the street after the damn biker.
She shook her head. No. She didn’t want this. Let him go. Morgan. Let him leave, please…
But Morgan was on a mission, and following this asshole was the end game. She couldn’t blame him, but she really wished he’d dropped her off at her house first. She wasn’t interested in playing cops and robbers. And where the hell had the cops gone? She needed them. Damn it.
There was no sign of Morgan slowing down. She peered over his shoulder and watched the biker weaving through the traffic ahead of her. Morgan wasn’t riding close, but it was close enough that he could track the rider from a slight distance behind. She understood. He was hoping for the rider to think he’d lost them. In fact, Morgan had been racing bikes since he was old enough to ride. She’d put her trust in him.
Hell, she already had.
*
Morgan whipped out from behind a truck and moved up two vehicles. The biker was ahead. Not being sneaky any longer, but also not trying to race away. He either thought he’d made it out of everyone’s sight or he didn’t give a damn. Considering how brazen he’d been so far, the second option was quite likely. Jazz’s safety came first. And that meant he couldn’t take as many crazy ass chances as he’d have taken if he were alone.
Still, he should have taken her to her house, grabbed her stuff, and gone home. But the chance to follow and learn something about their stalker was too big a temptation. They needed to find out who this asshole was. Where he lived. What the fuck he was doing? And why?
The bike shifted to the left, changing to the turning lane. Morgan quickly followed, staying behind several other vehicles that were trying to change lanes too. The bike caught the light and turned ahead of him.
Morgan took the chance, hearing a horn honk in front of him. He hit the gas and ripped forward ahead of the cross traffic.
With a sigh of relief, he caught sight of the bike up ahead making a right-hand turn. This time there was no one else between them. No vehicles to hide behind. Shit. He slowed down and pulled off to the side behind a car. He watched through the windshield to see the biker slow down ahead and pull into a large apartment building with underground parking.
Morgan pulled out his phone and sent a text to Constable Shawn Proctor The cop should be able to track the owners or renters of one of the units and match it to the owner of the bike. He hadn’t been able to read the license plate yet—if there was one. He’d love to identify the reflective sticker on the left pipe, but he hadn’t been close enough to be able to pay attention to it.
He sat on the side of the road and studied the secure parking. But there had to be hundreds of apartments and condos here. Interesting. It implied a certain income level if they lived there. It could also mean that the guy was visiting or renting and wouldn’t show up on any registry.
With a click of his wrist, he turned off the engine. What he wanted was to get inside and check out the bike. The biker might not be close by anymore, but that still meant his bike was there and the chance to examine it closer itched at him.
“What are you doing, Morgan?” Jazz said behind him, fatigue and worry in her voice.
Crap. He couldn’t leave her.
He twisted on the seat. “I was thinking of checking out the bike.”
She frowned at him, then turned her glance to the garage and back. With her chewing on her bottom lip like she was, he immediately started thinking of other things he could be doing with his time.
“I’ll come with you.”