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L.J. stabbed at the numbers on his disposable cell, his anger channeled into his fingertips.
Why hadn’t the hired goon called? By now he should have phoned with a blow-by-blow of Riley Reid’s injuries. Though he hadn’t met the ape, he’d seen video of him using a pointy-toed boot to kick a vagrant senseless.
After two rings, the tattooed testament to evolution’s hiccups answered.
“What’s happening?” L.J. demanded.
“Hey, man, I’m freezing my freakin’ balls off.”
The slurred words prompted L.J. to wonder if the idiot was skunked. “Have you seen the security director?”
“She went out once, but a big bruiser tagged along. She had two men with her when she came back. You didn’t pay for no mob scene.” The thug snorted. “I ain’t about to wait all night for the bitch to leave the damn building by her lonesome.”
Did the jerk-off think he was entitled to overtime? How about a 401k or sick leave? L.J. wanted to leap through the telephone and feed the foul-mouthed felon his own freakin’ balls.
“If you want the rest of the money, stay put. She’s bound to leave soon.”
After the call ended, an idea tempted L.J. If the security director procrastinated a few more minutes, he could watch the attack. Live theater.
Thanks to almost nonexistent traffic, he needed less than fifteen minutes to reach the campus, park the car a few blocks away, and hide near the building.
A sharp wind reminded foothill dwellers that spring flowers meant nothing. The mountains providing the campus with its postcard backdrop were capable of delivering a knockout punch of frost in late spring, often following days of eighty-degree temperatures.
He’d changed into a navy running suit. The thin nylon felt icy against his skin. He tugged the dark knit hat further down and stamped his feet to warm them. Thick turf muffled the sound.
He crouched a hundred feet from the main security office door. The full moon dictated the location, making him easy to spot if he skulked closer. A magnolia’s dense foliage offered inky shadows and good cover. The cloying scent of tea olives tickled his nose. Damn allergies.
Though he knew his employee hid on the eastern fringe of the parking lot, an overgrown patch of azaleas swallowed the man and his “hog” in a black hole.
What the hell is keeping her?
L.J. heard the door to the security offices groan open, the aged timbers complaining like some querulous old fart. The security director shambled toward her sensible Honda with a zombie’s gait. It was like watching a schlock horror flick.
Midway between the building and her car, she paused. Her head swiveled toward the bushes a second before the Harley roared to life.
* * * *
Riley heard a twig snap and turned toward the azalea thicket bordering the parking lot. A motorcycle engine rumbled. Tires squealed. A helmeted monster barreled toward her.
No time to draw her Glock. The man raised his right arm brandishing something slender and long.
A sword? A length of pipe? God almighty!
The assailant moved too fast. He’d land only a single blow.
Dive and roll.
Riley paused for a second that felt like eternity. She needed to time her move. Too early and the biker would adjust, run her down. Too late and he’d bash her head open like a ripe melon. Now?
The motorcycle’s headlight blinded her. She smelled oil and burnt rubber. The heated air vibrated. Go!
She sprang. Her damaged knee buckled. Her left shoulder smashed into pavement, imploded in pain. The biker landed a blow.
His weapon glanced off her exposed ribs. Shards of white-hot pain. Her concentration splintered.
“Help!”
The engine’s din trumped her muted cry.
“Freakin’ bitch, get ready.” Her attacker’s slurred words ran together.
Is he drunk?
“Poppa’s comin’,” he screeched. “Poppa’s gonna learn ya what a proper beatin’ means.”
Riley raised her gun. Shock and nausea slowed her reaction. Dear Lord. Too late.
Her attacker executed a half doughnut, spinning round for another pass. Tires squealed. The huge bike bore down on her again.
She coiled and rolled. Not fast enough. Whomp. His second strike landed. Pain radiated from shoulder to gut. Her muscles spasmed in protest. Bile rose in her throat.
He’s using a broom handle. Hard. Solid.
The fact that her brain continued to process data amazed and somehow comforted her.
The thug’s second hit paralyzed. Riley marshaled all her willpower to stave off unconsciousness. She longed to drop her gun, wrap her arms around herself, and sob. Instead she tightened the grip on her Glock. A deep breath brought instant agony. She drew her elbows tight to support her ribs and arm.
The biker appeared to lose balance. His bike weaved into a skid. His broad back formed an inviting target.
Riley aimed through unspilled tears.
The sound of the gunshot disoriented her. The motorcycle wobbled, then crashed. Metal screeched. Sparks flew as the downed bike skidded across the macadam.
When the Harley stopped, the world seemed to stand still. The rider didn’t move. Didn’t utter a moan.
The crickets reclaimed their rights to the night’s soundtrack.