“What are you going to—”
Before I could finish, she kicked that whine up another octave. As Neck Tattoo drifted into the exit lane, we came up right beside him, close enough to touch hands, and blocked his way. The move surprised him and he nearly lost control, his tires making a sloppy, dangerous S pattern on the asphalt. Erica slowed her speed to match his, ensuring he wouldn’t have time to recover and sneak onto the ramp at the last minute. He didn’t, and pulled back onto the main road. She did the same, clipping the guardrail that lined the narrow strip of grass separating the ramp from the left lane with our exhaust pipe. Another fraction of a second sooner, and it would have been my foot that got pinched between the two hunks of metal.
Now aware of our presence, he became more brazen, making a sharp right turn against oncoming traffic down a residential street. I closed my eyes and held my breath as Erica followed, pretending not to hear the honking horns and screeching brakes of the little blue compact car and the massive taxi that were way too close to even consider making the move she had just executed. I never heard a crash, but I didn’t turn around to look either once I opened my eyes.
“I’m going to pull up next to him,” she said, turning her head slightly so I could hear, “then you jump off and tackle him.”
I didn’t say anything at first, as the only logical response to her suggestion was stunned silence.
“Rick, did you hear me?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Did you hear you?”
“We’re not going that fast right now. Just make sure you land on him and he’ll take the brunt of the impact.” She said this as if explaining to a toddler how it won’t hurt if he falls off his bicycle as long as he lands in the grass.
“I don’t think that’s how physics works.”
“Trust me.”
“There has to be another way,” I said. Except the last word elongated into “waaaaaaaayyyyyyy!” as Neck Tattoo turned left so suddenly we almost rolled the bike following him.
“There was another way,” she said after we didn’t die. “We could have pinned him between the two of us and forced him to slow down but you were never man enough to learn how to ride a motorcycle.”
“Don’t gender stereotype me.”
“We’re done talking,” she said, then switched on the small audio system the owner of our bike had installed on his dash. Twin speakers mounted to the handlebars, each looking like they cost as much as the bike itself, started pumping out the first song on the pre-programmed playlist.
When Maggie was just a baby, we ran out of diapers in the middle of the afternoon. When I turned the car on to make a Target run, the opening guitar riff for “Bad to the Bone” by George Thorogood & The Destroyers was just starting on the radio. Not going to lie, I put my sunglasses on a little slower and backed out of the driveway like a badass that day. Super Dad, on the way to pick up some fresh Pampers. You don’t want none of this, Society.
Never would I have guessed that, sixteen years later, I’d be involved in an actual high speed motorcycle chase, only instead of one of the most iconic blues-rock songs ever, my soundtrack would be “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” by Starship. Because, apparently, the illegal street racer whose bike we commandeered had a thing for ’80s power ballads.
Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s a bad song.
“You can turn this off if you want,” I said into Erica’s ear.
“Do you want me to turn it off?”
“Your call, you’re the driver.”
“I’m just gonna let it play.”
“Sure, keep your hands at two and ten, I get it.”
“It’s a motorcycle, but point taken.”
“Safety first. Speaking of which, is the plan still for me to—”
“Yes, you’re still tackling him.”
“Shit.”
When we were about a foot to his left, the street temporarily free of parked cars as we’d entered more of a retail section with small shops replacing the houses, she shouted, “Now!”
As Mickey Thomas and Grace Slick were promising to build this dream together, I gathered what little footing I could and launched off the bike. It still amazes me that I had the nerve to do it. The younger, Target-run version of me would have been so impressed. Seeing my face locked in determination, outstretched arms reaching toward the object of our pursuit.
Then, slowly, that determined face evaporated into one of oh shit panic as instead of wrapping my outstretched arms around Neck Tattoo, I sailed behind him. My hand brushed his coat, and strictly out of reflex I closed it and held on to the fistful of leather. It was enough to yank him off and we both smacked into the ground. I lost him as we tumbled, but he didn’t go far, stopped by the tires of a delivery truck parked out front of a convenience store. I rolled a few more times before I clipped a parking meter, which killed the rest of my momentum.
So, pretty much the exact opposite of what Erica told me to do. But come on, it’s not like I practiced this shit.
Blood dripped down my left hand from where another of the stitches at the tip of my finger had popped, and my shoulder was on fire. The whole left arm was limp and weak, in fact. I’d never dislocated a joint before, but I didn’t need WebMD to tell me that’s what had happened. My clothes, ripped and dirty, protected me from any serious road burn. My ribs were sore, but I could breathe and didn’t think any were cracked. If I ever saw my brother again, I’d have bragging rights when comparing who took a better fall.
Yay.
The driver of the delivery truck had come out to see what happened, but Erica killed his curiosity by pointing her gun at him. When it became apparent he wasn’t a threat, she turned her attention to Neck Tattoo, who was still struggling to get to his feet. His bike was lying in the middle of the street, a few random broken pieces scattered around it. His helmet had a dark black smudge where it must have hit the truck tire. Wear your headgear, kids.
My own head was bleeding—I couldn’t tell from where, everything hurt—but I didn’t think I had a concussion. There was no ringing in my ears and my vision was clear, but it was still a shock to see Joey’s car idling behind Erica. Had he been keeping pace with us the entire time?
“Get up,” Erica said, grabbing Neck Tattoo by his collar and ripping off his helmet. His legs were unsteady and he didn’t put up a fight. She opened the back door of Joey’s Fiat and forced him into the center, slid in next to him and told me to get in the other side, trapping him between us. I did and Joey sped off, the delivery truck driver watching us go, eyes and mouth agape, as Starship insisted that nothing would stop us now.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“How much do you love this car?” Erica asked.
“I was actually thinking of trading it in, getting a nice Beamer,” Joey said, his eyes on the road.
It was good enough for Erica, who grabbed Neck Tattoo’s wrist, forced his hand open flat against the seat, and fired a bullet through the top of it.
“Fuck!” I shouted, clapping a hand against my ear. Joey cursed too and jerked the wheel, but our protestations were mild compared to the screams coming from Neck Tattoo. He clutched his mangled hand with the one that still worked and rocked his body side to side, then back and forth against the pain. The tendons in his neck bulged out like taut violin strings beneath his skin as he wailed, and it became readily apparent that he was not someone used to being tortured.
