Chapter One – Ready, Aim, Fire.

 

He’s coming.

 

The far-off drone of a high-performance motorcycle engine drifted up the two-lane highway on the warm, early September north Texas breeze, the volume and pitch escalating as the bike grew closer. I had no idea who rode the Ninja, but I’d had my eye on him for weeks.

 

Today I’m going to nail him.

 

Sitting on my Harley-Davidson, I dug the heels of my knee-high black leather boots into the loose mix of dirt, gravel, and cigarette butts edging the highway. I eased the machine back from the shoulder until I was fully obscured by the faded yellow sign that read “Welcome to Jacksburg—Population 8,476 Friendly People,” under which “and a couple of assholes” had been added in thick red marker, probably by last year’s senior class from the rival high school in Hockerville.

 

Dressed head-to-toe in dark colors, I’d be difficult to spot. A couple of overgrown oleander bushes with pink flowers flanked the sign, providing extra cover. The guy would never see me lying in wait, gun in hand. He wouldn’t know what hit him until it was too late. Heh-heh. I grasped the gun tightly, resting the grip across my right thigh, grown noticeably thicker over the last few months. Gah. Time to hit the treadmill. Craning my neck, I peeked between the swaying limbs of the bush, my gaze locked on the small rise a half mile up the road. A few strands of my dark hair pulled free from my long braid and blew in the breeze, tickling my freckled cheeks. Some might refer to the reddish streaks in my hair as highlights, but the coppery tones were unintentional, the result of wind and sun damage. Mother Nature was my hairdresser now. She was much less expensive than the stylist who’d coiffed my hair when I’d lived in Dallas.

 

The motor grew louder and my breathing ceased, every muscle in my body locked in place. I was a sniper, waiting for my target. Waiting . . . Waiting . . .

 

And there he was.

 

The golden-yellow and black Ninja ZX-14R popped up over the hill, the noise from its powerful engine now a full-blown primal scream, its rider hunched forward over the sport bike like a jockey over a racehorse to maximize aerodynamics. I raised the gun with two shaky hands, resting my forearms on the platform of my double-D breasts. Leveling the barrel, I sighted, squinting through my tinted goggles, and whispered, “One . . . two . . . three.”

 

I pulled the trigger. Crud. The display on the ancient radar gun read 729 miles per hour. A Ninja can haul ass, but it wasn’t a frickin’ rocket. I yanked the gun’s power plug out of the bike’s cigarette lighter, reinserted it, and tried again. By this time, the Ninja was right on me. I took aim, squeezed the trigger a second time, and checked the readout. 56 mph. Nine miles under the speed limit. Damn. Looked like I’d never find out who rode that kick-ass bike.

The motorcycle roared past, kicking up a dusty, warm wind, its rider decked out in a sporty jumpsuit of yellow and black coordinated to match the bike. A quarter mile down the road, the bike turned left onto Main Street, disappearing into the distance and into my dreams.

 

 

 

Dead as a Door Knocker – Excerpt