I LANDED ON the gun, a Glock nine, groped for it, fumbled it. The older biker kicked me in the face. The world wobbled, the air turned thick like a heat wave. The redheaded biker grabbed my foot, tried to pull me off the gun and came away with my shoe. He fell back on his ass. The older biker kicked me again. I moved my face out of the way this time and took it on the shoulder. I rolled off the gun when he came at me with the ball-peen. Had to, no choice. His swing took him off balance. The blow struck me on the left arm. White pain shot up to my shoulder and turned my arm numb. Still on the ground, I swung my leg wide and hard, kicking his legs out from under him. He flopped onto the ground.
I struggled to my feet, looked left to the gun on the ground. I didn’t have time to make a move toward it. The redhead crouched and sprang at me. I let him come, grabbed onto his denim vest, and fell backward as I stuck my foot in his chest. His eyes went wide as he saw the move unfold. He said it fast, pleaded with me, “No, mister, please don’t. Don’t.”
Three against one didn’t make a fair fight. I had to even the odds or die. I flipped him high overhead, right out into traffic.
A black Honda Accord took him. Snatched him right out of the air. He smashed the windshield, flew in the air again, and landed on the hot concrete. The Honda with the shattered windshield skidded out of control and crashed into the three motorcycles on kickstands parked on the shoulder.
I rolled over to the gun and scooped it up just as the older biker came in fast with his ball-peen.
I shot him in the forehead.
Flipped off his lights.
Sirens, still miles away, reached out to me. They’d be on scene in minutes. I didn’t feel sorry for killing the older biker. He’d called the game and lost. The redheaded biker, though, bothered me a great deal. His eyes, his voice, the way he pleaded. And I’d gone ahead and done it anyway, flipped him out into oncoming traffic.
I struggled to my feet, my knees weak, not wanting to cooperate. I hurried over to the downed officer and took a set of cuffs from the handcuff case on her belt. Dirk, on his hands and knees, spit teeth and blood onto the sandy earth. I put my foot on his shoulder and shoved him over. I pointed the Glock at him. “You saw what I did to your partners. You want some of this?”
He held up his hand and said, “No, man, no. I’m done.”
I put the gun in my waistband, cuffed his hand, and dragged him over to the patrol unit. I ratcheted the cuff to the pushbar, securing him until backup arrived.
I went back to the patrol officer and eased her onto her back. Her eyes rolled open. “Hey, kid,” I said, “it’s all over. You’re okay. You understand? You’re okay and you’re gonna make it just fine.”
I unclipped her shoulder mic and keyed it. “Eleven-ninety-nine. Eleven-ninety-nine, shots fired, officer down, shots fired, officer down.”
I took her gun from my waistband and stuck it back in her holster. A cop always felt vulnerable without her gun in her holster. “Help will be here in about two minutes,” I said. “Just lie still and try to stay awake. It’s real important that you stay awake. I don’t need you going into shock.”
Her color drained as I watched. Shock could kill her faster than any bullet. I needed to elevate her legs. I dragged over the older biker, the dead one, laid him on his side, and put her legs up on him. “It’s the best I can do for right now, kid. I’ve gotta run. You gonna be okay?”
She gave me a barely perceptible nod.
I stood. Far off down the freeway, headed our way, a conga line of cop cars drove the shoulder, kicking up a huge dust cloud. All the cars on the freeway had stopped now. I hadn’t noticed at what point that happened.
I ran for the Ford Escape, got in, slammed it in drive, and steered to the right side of the Highway Patrol car, to the far and extreme part of the shoulder, the only way out.
In the middle of the freeway, on the westbound traffic lanes, two Highway Patrol cars stopped parallel to the incident. The officers pulled their shotguns, jumped out of their cars, and climbed the center divider. They wove their way through all the stopped traffic, approaching with caution as I gunned the Ford Escape.
The black Honda Accord had shoved one of the downed choppers into my path, blocking my way out. I pulled the gearshift down into low and gunned the car. I drove right over the motorcycle. The Escape jerked and rattled. I banged into the right front of the Accord, shoved it out of the way, and made it clear. The driver of the Accord shot me the finger.
I took the speed up to fifty, too fast for driving on the shoulder, zipping past all the stopped cars on the freeway, but if I didn’t get away, I would never see freedom again.