She wondered if her grandparents had called Doctor Beadermeyer, and if the Nazi was on his way to Philadelphia. No, he'd wait. He wouldn't want to chase shadows, and that's exactly what she was and Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
planned to be.
No one could catch her now. The three hundred dollars would get her to Maine. She'd go to Bar Harbor, get a job, and survive. The tourists would flow in in only three months, then she would have more cover than she'd ever need. No one would find her there. She knew she was seeing Bar Harbor through a seven-year-old's eyes, but it had been so magical; surely it couldn't be all that different now.
Where was James? He was close, she just knew it. She hadn't exactly felt him close, but as she'd told her grandparents, he was smarter than he had a right to be.
She devoutly hoped he was at home in Washington, in bed fast asleep, the way she should be right now but wasn't. How close was he?
"Damnation," she said aloud. She thought about it a few more minutes, then got out of bed. She would just get to Bar Harbor sooner than expected. Still, she'd spent $27.52 on this room. To waste that money was appalling, but she couldn't sleep.
She was out of the room within five minutes. She revved up her motorcycle and swung batk onto the road, the garish lights from Hot Harvey's Topless Girls haloing around her helmeted head. It was odd, she thought, as she passed a Chevrolet-she would have sworn that James was nearby. But that wasn't possible.
James was the navigator and on the lookout for the Last Stop Motel. When she pulled out not fifty feet ahead of them, at first he couldn't believe it. He shouted, "Good God. Wait, Dillon, wait. Stop."
"Why, what's wrong?"
"My God, it's Sally."
"What Sally? Where?"
"On the motorcycle. I'd recognize my coat anywhere. She didn't buy a clunker, she bought a motorcycle.
Let's go, Dillon. Jesus, what if we'd been thirty seconds later?"
"You're sure? That's Sally on that motorcycle? Yeah, you're right, that is your coat. It looks moth-eaten even from here. How do you want me to curb her in? It could be dangerous, what with her on that damned bike."
"Hang back for a while and let's think about this."
Dillon kept the Porsche a good fifty feet behind Sally.
"That was a smart thing she did," Dillon said. "Buying a motorcycle."
"They're dangerous as hell. She could break her neck riding that thing."
"Stop sounding like you're her husband, Quinlan."
"You want me to break your upper lip? Hey, what's going on here?"
Four motorcycles passed the Porsche and accelerated toward the single motorcycle ahead.
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"Damn," Dillon said. "This is all we need. A gang, you think?"
"Why not? Our luck has sucked so far. How many rounds of ammunition do you have?''
"Enough," Dillon said briefly, his hands still loose and relaxed on the steering wheel, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. Traffic was very light going out of Philadelphia at this time of night.
"You feeling like the Lone Ranger again?"
"Why not?"
The four motorcycles formed a phalanx around Sally.
Just don't panic, Sally, Quinlan said over and over to himself. Just don't panic.
She'd never been so scared in her life. She had to laugh at that. Well, to tell the truth, at least she hadn't been this scared in the last five hours. Four of them, all guys, all riding gigantic Harleys, all of them in dark leather jackets. None of them was wearing a helmet. She should tell them they were stupid not to wear helmets. Maybe they didn't realize she was female. She felt her hair slapping against her shoulders. So much for that prayer.
What to do? More to the point, what would James do?
He'd say she was outnumbered and to get the hell out of there. She twisted the accelerator grip hard, but the four of them did the same, seemingly content for the moment just to keep their positions, hemming her in and scaring the hell out of her.
She thought of her precious two hundred and seventy something dollars, all the money she had in the world. No, she wouldn't let them take that money. It was all she had.
She shouted to the guy next to her, "What do you want? Go away!"
The guy just laughed and called out, "Come with us. We've got a place up ahead you'll like."
She yelled, "No, go away!" Was the idiot serious? He wasn't a fat, revolting biker, like the stereotype was usually painted. He was lean, his hair was cut short, and he was wearing glasses.
He swerved his bike in closer, not a foot from her now. He called out, "Don't be afraid. Come with us.
We're turning off at the next right. Al-the guy on your right- he's got a nice cozy little place not five miles from here. You could spend some time with us, maybe sack out. We figure you must have rolled some guy for that coat, whatever, it doesn't matter. Hey, we're good solid citizens. We promise."
"Yeah, right," she shouted, "just like the pope. You want me to come with you so you can rob me and rape me and probably kill me. Go to hell, buster!"
She sped up. The bike shot forward. She could have sworn she heard laughter behind her. She felt the gun in James's coat pocket. She leaned down close to the handlebars and prayed.
"Let's go, Dillon."
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Dillon accelerated the Porsche and honked at the bikers, who swerved to the side of the highway. They heard curses and shouts behind them. Quinlan just grinned.
"Let's just keep us between her and the bikers," Quinlan said. "What do you think, Dillon? Are we going to have to follow her until she runs out of gas?''
"I can get ahead of her, brake hard, and swing the car across the road in front of her."
"Not with the bikers still back there, we can't. Just stay close."
"In exactly one more minute she's going to look back," Dillon said.
"She's never seen the Porsche."
"Great. So she'll think not only some insane bikers are after her but also a guy in a sexy red Porsche."
"If I were her, I'd opt for you."
Why didn't the car pass her?
She pulled even further over toward the shoulder. Still the car didn't pull around. There were two bloody lanes. There were no other cars around. Did the idiot want three lanes?
Then something slammed into her belly. The guy in that Porsche was after her. Who was he? He had to be connected with Quinlan-she'd bet her last dime on it.
Why hadn't she stayed in her motel room, quiet on that nice hard bed, and counted sheep? That's probably what James would have done, but no, she had to come out on a motorcycle after midnight.
Then she saw a small, gaping hole in the guardrail that separated the eastbound lanes from the westbound. She didn't think, just swerved over in a tight arc and flew through that opening. There was a honk behind her from a motorist who barely missed her. He cursed at her out his window as he flew by.
There was lots of traffic going back into Philadelphia. She was safer now.
"Jesus, I can't believe she did that," James said, his heart pounding so loud in his chest that it hurt. "Did you see that opening? It couldn't have been more than a foot.
I'm going to have to yell at her when we catch her."
“Well, she made it. Looked just like a pro. You told me she had grit. I'd say more likely she's got nerves of steel or the luck of the Irish. And yeah, you're sounding like you're her husband again. Stop it, Quinlan.
It scares me."
"Nothing short of a howitzer firing would scare you. Pay attention now and stop analyzing everything I say. We'll get her, Dillon; there's a cut-through just ahead."
It took them some time to get her back in view. She was weaving in and out of the thicker traffic going back into the city.