But another thug was blocking the exit.
Damn.
That guy now ran toward him. Andy retreated and ran down the center aisle. He grabbed an empty shopping cart and rolled it at the guy, flung a few cans of organic refried beans at him-which he blocked with his arms as if they were sponges-then knocked over displays stacked high with cans of whey protein and energy drinks. Which slowed the dude down long enough for Andy to cut down the pet aisle offering socially conscious dog toys, through the wine cellar, and into Beer Alley.
Cases of beer were stacked high against the glass walls, so the view from outside the cooler was blocked. He hid behind a stack of Corona Extras. Dang, six-packs were on sale for only $7.99. He hated to pass up a sale, but there was no way he could get out of there carrying a six-pack. So he grabbed a cold bottle, placed the edge of the cap against the shelf, and slapped the top with the butt of his open hand. The cap popped off. He drained half the beer in one long drink.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and peeked out the glass enclosure; two of the men were arguing with the trooper over by the Bowie BBQ counter. Now was his chance. It was a straight shot up the chips and salsa aisle to the escalators. He stayed low to the ground until he got to the door of the beer cooler then- damn- one of the thugs spotted him.
Andy darted up frozen vegetables and ran full out to the checkout counters; the escalators were just beyond the counters. But the lines were packed with shoppers and grocery carts. So he dodged a cart, stepped on a stack of bottled waters, and leaped onto the moving belt at a checkout counter.
"Pardon me! Coming through!"
He jumped over the price scanner and then the recyclable brown paper shopping bags and hit the ground again; two big steps and he grabbed the metal railing, vaulted the glass panel, and dropped onto the down escalator. He squeezed past customers and their carts and ran out the doors.
He was in the garage.
The bike was right outside the door, but he fumbled for the combination to the lock; he checked back for the men. He finally got the lock opened and hopped on the Stumpjumper just as the brutes blew out the door to the escalators. He stood on the pedals and raced around the garage; they ran around cars and climbed over cars and tried to cut him off. But he beat them to the Bowie Street exit, flew out onto the street, and turned south. He turned east on Fifth Street, cut through two alleys, and arrived at the loft. He opened the front door and pulled the bike inside.
He had made it.
He stood there a moment to catch his breath. Then he smiled. He had two breakfast tacos. And they were still warm. He went to the fridge, grabbed a Corona, and popped the top. He sat down and ate his breakfast. Protein, carbs, and beer-the breakfast of champions. He had just finished the second taco when he heard noises outside. He went to the window and peeked out.
The thugs were there.
The two black Mercedes-Benz sedans were there. How had they found him in this loft? He watched them through the blinds. They were pointing at the other lofts; there were twenty in this building. They were splitting up and going door to door. Which meant… they knew he lived in one of these twenty lofts, but they didn't know which loft. They had tracked him to this building, but not to this loft. How?
There was a knock on the door.
Andy finished off the Corona, grabbed his sunglasses, and went down a flight of stairs to the one-car garage that sat slightly below ground level. A short driveway ramped up to the street out front where the Mercedes-Benzes were parked.
He hit the light.
The garage was stark white and immaculate; there wasn't a broom, shovel, lawn mower, tool, or grease spot in sight. But parked in the center of the garage was a glossy black American IronHorse Slammer. Seven hundred forty-two pounds and one hundred ten horsepower of pure adrenaline rush. The biggest, baddest, most ass-kicking motorcycle on the planet.
Andy saddled up and ran his hands over the dual gas tanks as if they were Suzie's smooth thighs. The front tire measured one hundred twenty millimeters in width, the back tire three hundred, the better to hold the road. The wheels were chrome Streetfighters and featured disc brakes front and rear. The S amp;S Sidewinder engine beneath him filled one hundred eleven cubic inches of space. The transmission was six-speed with overdrive. The price tag was $42,500.
He had ordered the Slammer a month before, right after Russell Reeves had hired him to find his old girlfriends at $500 an hour. He had taken delivery of the motorcycle only the day before, after Russell's men had chased him from UT to the Hike-and-Bike Trail. He had bought his dream with Russell Reeves' money-money Andy had earned finding Frankie Doyle.
Now he needed the Slammer to make things right.
Andy secured the black bowl-type crash helmet on his head and inserted the sunglasses. He took a deep breath then fired up the Slammer. He revved the engine just to hear the distinctive IronHorse roar. No other sound on Mother Earth could compare.
Adrenaline coursed through his body.
He stood the Slammer straight and kicked the stand back. The bike was pointed directly at the garage door. He hit the automatic opener clipped to the handlebars. The door rose. Andy shifted the Slammer into gear, but held the clutch in tight. When the door was high enough, he ducked down, popped the clutch, and gave it the gas. The Slammer shot under the door and up the driveway ramp past the startled thugs and between the Mercedes-Benz sedans and out onto Fifth Street. He leaned hard right and accelerated; he saw in the side mirrors the men scrambling into the sedans. He heard tires squealing.
He would lose them out on the big road where the IronHorse could do what it did best: go fast.
He turned south on Guadalupe Street and hit South First then accelerated across the bridge over Lady Bird Lake. He veered east onto Riverside past Threadgill's then south onto Congress Avenue. The sedans were six car lengths behind him. He accelerated up the hill past the School for the Deaf then slowed and yelled at Guillermo Garza hanging his head out the window at Jo's.
"Keep the faith, bro!"
Guillermo ran outside with his fists in the air.
"Andy, my man! You are the man!"
Andy gave Guillermo a fist-punch in the air then gave the Slammer the gas. He hit the center turn lane and blew past a line of slow-moving cars. He spotted Oscar sweeping the front porch at Guero's and shouted "Dude!" as he drove past. In the side mirror he saw Oscar drop his broom… and the black sedans gaining on him.
He juiced the Slammer.
He passed his little office above Ramon's tattoo parlor and wondered if he'd ever contest another traffic ticket. When he had run from Russell Reeves the day before, he had crossed the line. He had chosen Frankie over his client. Right over wrong. Morality over money. Love over law. All the wrong choices for a lawyer. He would be disbarred.
If he wasn't killed first.
He hit the brakes hard. Traffic was backed up at Oltorf Street.
But he couldn't stop now.
So he veered across the northbound lanes, cut through a parking lot, turned back west on Oltorf, made it through the intersection and turned south on Congress before the light turned green. Fortunately, no Austin cop was around; the fines from those moving violations would top $1,000. But now he was ahead of the traffic and the sedans. He slowed when he came to the new low-income town homes his client was building for SoCo.
Russell Reeves was a complicated man.
Andy arrived at Highway 290 West. The road that climbed three hundred feet to the top of the Balcones Escarpment. A road that required a powerful engine. Like the Slammer's S amp;S Sidewinder.