Hard Rider

by Lydia Pax

  Chapter 51

  They were going way too fast.

  The patrol car shook as Colt sped down the curvy lanes, sliding in and out of the lanes and scraping gravel on the shoulder. It was dark. The headlines skidded across the hilly, rocky landscape like a bad skier.

  He was on the radio. “This is Sheriff Colt. I require immediate back-up on Highway 90, sixty miles West of Marlowe.”

  Some chattering came through, confusion. June couldn’t quite catch it all—focusing on the increasing long slides of every turn he made.

  “Just send someone out here! Everyone, dammit! Officer under fire!”

  They slammed into yet another turn, Colt throwing the radio down. This was like a bad roller coaster.

  June banged against the door on one turn, grunting in pain. “Slow down!”

  But he wouldn’t slow down—and his loaded gun still pointed at her. The trees swooped by faster and faster, a green blur outside. June thought she was going to be sick. If the collision didn’t kill them when they flew off the road, then the discharge from his gun probably would.

  “Please, slow down,” she said, her voice carrying a strange calm. “Dad, please.”

  “Goddamn pissants,” Colt snapped, clearly not talking to her. “Pissant fucks. All that work. All that work. Do you know what I’ve invested? What I put in?”

  “Watch the road!”

  The car swung wildly down a turn as Colt turned his attention back on the road, narrowly making a curve down the tall hill.

  “Shut your goddamn mouth,” said Colt. “Distracting me. All the time distracting me. Your whore mouth and your whore words. Where have you been, huh? Where do you get off talking to me, telling me what to do? I’m the goddamn law in this county!”

  A cold, serene voice told June not to say anything more to her father—that he might very well shoot her if she did. The gun still rocked in his hand, steering with the other, and even an angry gesture with it might fire.

  Behind them, she could hear the unmistakable growl of Ram’s bike, followed closely by Beretta’s truck. The bike would have an easier time in the tight curves of the slope but would have to go slower without the extra traction a car provided. Still, though, she could hear them gaining. Colt’s wild driving was doing him no favors in the speed department. For every inch he gained from going such insane velocities, he lost three when he had to recover from the long turns.

  Soon she saw Ram in the rear mirror. Blood covered one side of his face from Colt’s heavy blow. How Beretta was standing, breathing—let alone driving—after being shot was beyond her.

  The end of the hilly road approached. If her father made it to the straightway on the highway, then Ram and Beretta would soon after, and then it would be a chase for sure. Scenarios ran through her mind, all of them awful—her father skidding his car into Ram, running him over and leaving him a broken mess in the asphalt, or maybe the two outlaws somehow flipping the car over and rolling her and her father to a quick, ugly death.

  She had to take action. Anything was a gamble, but she wanted to be the decider of her fate. Not her father, not even Ram—but her and her alone.

  On one particularly sharp turn, the gun wavered off of her for just a moment—long enough for her to act. She pushed the gun toward the windshield and took a hold of the wheel, spinning it hard to one side.

  They careened off the road into the woods, into the trees, into every hard surface there was left in the world.

  Chapter 52

  Ram could hear sirens down the road, but he didn’t care. His shoulder was shot through, but he didn’t care. Beretta might die if he didn’t get to the hospital soon, but he didn’t care.

  All that was on his mind was June.

  The sheriff’s car was going too fast—way too fast—and it had just wrapped itself into a tree.

  Ram’s heart caught as he saw the car twist off the road. There was a steep drop of about four feet from the road off into the section of forest it curved through. The car fishtailed hard into a huge pine tree, spilling the contents of the trunk onto the forest floor below.

  He ran forward, paying no mind to the possibility that Colt was still conscious, still had a gun. A solitary hole could be seen in the spider-webbed windshield where a bullet shot off when the car wrecked.

  It was impossible to tell if he’d fired the gun more during the chaos and din of the wreck.

  If more shots had been fired…if he’d hurt June…

  Colt would kill him, plain and simple. He might do it anyway.

  He rushed to the car door and yanked it open with his good arm. It fell off the busted frame of the car in his hands, weakened by the crash. Inside, Colt and June were both dazed, eyes looking blank. June had a thick, ugly knot on the top of her head. Banged against the dash, most likely. Other than that, a few scrapes here and there, she seemed fine.

  His heart felt like it was pumping again.

  Quickly, he unhooked her seat belt and slipped her onto his arm, pulling her away. To feel her warmth after that filled him with an easy, earnest gratitude that made everything okay.

  The slick, thick stench of gasoline filled the air. Probably the gas tank had been ruptured during the crash. It wouldn’t be long before a spark caught against it and set the whole mess ablaze with Colt inside. June seemed to notice it too.

  “You’ve got to get him,” said June. “Please.”

  She didn’t have to explain; didn’t have to justify. If she wanted it, he would do it and sort out the mess later.

  As Beretta pulled up behind them in his truck, Ram, leapt into action again. He came down to the awkward edge of the road, balancing carefully and entering the car once more. As he looked inside, he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun once more.

  “Sunuvabitch,” Colt grunted, voice pained. “you give her back. You—”

  Ram snatched the gun away and held it at Colt’s head. Just for a moment, just to see what that was like.

  It would be easy to kill him then, to have it done with.

  But June didn’t want him to. He tossed the gun out of the car into the heavy ankle-length grass.

  Colt was a large man, built on a diet of steaks, beer, and fried food. But all the same Ram lifted him out of the car and rolled him out onto the street. His shoulder screamed in pain with every new movement, every push. It took more out of him than he expected—especially with a bullet hole pulsing out blood in his arm every new second.

  He breathed hard on the road for a few seconds, waiting for the ache to leave his side from the pain jolting down his entire body. As he did, Colt lurched forward, lunging for the gun in Ram’s belt.

  Ram pushed him away easily, and Colt lunged again, groaning and grunting, grappling for position. Ram sent him to the ground and Colt roared back up to his feet.

  It was going to be an all-out fight with this asshole. Ram lowered his shoulders, preparing to strike.

  June stepped in front of him and slapped her father across the face.

  “Enough, Dad.” Her voice was ragged but cool. She slapped him again, the same cheek, turning his head to one side. “That’s enough. When does it end for you? This is enough.”

  He looked down at her and a great weight seemed to leave him—his shoulders sagging, his knees giving out beneath him. He landed on the road and drew himself up into his knees.

  His face was blank, eyes wide and almost catatonic. June walked over to Ram and drew herself into his arms.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, looking with wide eyes at his shoulder.

  “‘Course. Just need to stitch it up. I’ll be fine.” He gingerly looked over the knot forming on her forehead. “You okay?”

  “Banged up, but yeah.”

  They kissed hard, both of them full of adrenaline still, their lips tasting more full, their bodies feeling more right than they ever had before.

  “I’m fine,” croaked Beretta, stumbling out of his truck. “Don’t worry about me.”

  He cam
e near to falling down. Ram rushed to him, keeping him on his feet. “Christ, bud. You really got it, didn’t you?”

  Beretta nodded. There was blood all over his midsection, some of it dried around his lips.

  “We’ll get you to a hospital, okay?” said Ram. “You’ll be fine. Just stay with us, all right? You did good up there.”

  “You too,” said Beretta. “I guess we’re even.”

  There was no hostility anymore, no false pretenses of alliance. They had been through the fire together and come out forged anew. It wouldn’t be the same as it was before—they would never have the relationship they did. But they could have something new, and something—if not better—then still just as good.

  “Even?” said Ram. “Nah.”

  June stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. He could see how she was about to tell him off for snapping Beretta’s olive branch.

  “I figure we’ll be even when you get a new bike. What do you think?”

  He could see Beretta try to laugh at this, but holding it in because of the pain in his belly. Beretta pushed him off, macho, trying to hold himself up on his truck. He insisted he would be fine.

  Ram didn’t believe him, not all the way, but those sirens were getting closer. There was no way away from them. The only route away was back up toward the cabin, and that wasn’t an exit—not when they all needed medical attention.

  Their time was running out—and especially his time with June. He grabbed her and, not saying a word, kissed her as hard as he could.

  He ground her body into his, loving the feel of her, the sweet scent, the thickness of her hair and the tightness of her curves. He kissed with everything he had, enveloping her lips, his tongue pressing across hers, teeth scraping just lightly as he lifted her up off the ground with just one arm.

  “I love you, June,” he said.

  “I love you, Ram.”

  The sirens came closer and closer. There was an ambulance among them, but it was mostly cops. When they finally arrived, June and Ram were still kissing, and Colt was still on the road, head in his hands.

  The cops filed out with their guns drawn, as usual, even though Beretta and Ram had thrown their guns down onto the road so they could be seen clearly.

  Colt staggered upward, waving his hands.

  “Arrest those two sons-of-bitches!” said Colt. “Arrest them for assaulting an officer! For kidnapping my daughter! For murder, plain and simple!”

  The cops began to sweep into action. Beretta and Ram held their hands up, on their knees, not protesting or fighting.

  They had known this was coming. Very quickly the police began to take statements, set out tape, and bag evidence. Ram and June told their side of the story to a cop who then reported back to Kyle Colt, who was acting like he was in charge.

  Colt grinned at the proceedings as they handcuffed both men and as Beretta was rolled into the back of the ambulance. Ram watched June’s brother approach their father, trying to talk in low tones.

  “Sheriff Colt, we’ve got this under control. You should go see the paramedics.”

  “Paramedics? Hell! I’ve faced worse than this. You know that. Why—”

  “Dad,” Kyle was more forceful now. “Maybe you ought to step aside and go to the paramedics. Let us make the arrest.”

  “The hell should I do that for?”

  “Because you just smashed up your squad car in the middle of nowhere when you reported in that you were taking the day off. We got two men shot and a banged up woman, none of whom are telling the same story as you. And then there’s the dead body up in a cabin at the end of this road. How about that?”

  Colt made as if to shout again, and then quieted down. “I’ll…yes. Paramedics. I think I may have gotten a concussion from all the…all the ruckus.”

  Kyle watched him walk away back to the ambulance where the paramedics there had already stabilized Beretta.

  Now that the fracas with his father was done, Kyle approached Ram, with June still right next to him. A couple of officers were having a debate about redoing Ram’s handcuffs so they were behind his back instead of in front.

  “You have to arrest him?” June asked Kyle.

  “Can’t really get around it, no,” said Kyle. “I’ll make sure they treat him right. Okay?”

  “I’m trusting you, Kyle.”

  “I know. I’ll make sure it’s all right,” he said again.

  Very slowly, the scene began to disintegrate. Ram was stuffed inside the back of a car and driven back to Marlowe and to jail.

  They stitched up his shoulder and told him he would be fine. But he knew he wouldn’t be.

  Not until he was with June again.

  Epilogue

  June waited outside the gas station on Ram’s bike, sliding her hands appreciatively over the leather of the seat. It was nearing evening and the sun came down slow, leaving a jagged trail like a serrated knife on the dusty sky. The nights were cooler now, and she wore a tight leather jacket to compensate.

  Six months had passed, and Ram’s sentence was served and done. She had picked him up from prison earlier that day, waiting for him with his bike ready. Howitzer had been giving her lessons in riding, and she thought she was coming along nicely.

  Luck had finally struck hard for June and for Ram. In the weeks following the shootout at the cabin, there wasn’t another compelling story in the media. The release of the tapes turned the bloody affair, which was headline regional news, into a national story and a call for multiple exposes on the Marlowe Sheriff’s Department. It was investigated by the federal government, with multiple instances of corruption found.

  Sheriff Colt resigned from office and faced prosecution from the federal authorities for abuse of his power—as did about half of his staff, not including Kyle Colt. In fact, one of the only people found squeaky clean by the investigation was Kyle, now running for Sheriff in the election next week.

  Her father and several of his underlings, though, faced multiple criminal charges.

  Calling in multiple favors, John Colt had finagled his way into pushing his sentencing back past the elections—which also would decide the new district attorney. He’d hoped a colleague of his would be elected and possibly even call the whole trial off. But this was a mistake and a misreading of the mood of the mob—the favorite by a staggering eighty points was a former public defender and civil rights lawyer running on a hard anti-corruption platform.

  The only favor that Colt had called in that had actually worked for him was that the killing of Mikhail by Theo was ruled as self-defense. Theo was kicked out of the force too, though, and barred from ever becoming a cop again in the state of Texas. Given that police departments were the sort to ask around about anyone trying to get hired on, he probably wouldn’t get a job anywhere in the United States as police again.

  Theo didn’t seem to care. He took the whole affair pretty hard, and last week, at June’s urging, had checked himself into a psychiatric ward. It was a place he could get better, and while it might not have been what Ram wanted, it was what June wanted—her family trying to heal itself, one person at a time.

  Even so, Sheila wasn’t talking to June. Kyle sent his sister updates about the family every few days or so. This made June sad, but life was long, and she hoped eventually her mother would come around. This time, she would keep the door open on her part, and make sure not to close herself off. She would make sure to keep trying.

  Beretta and Ram’s sentence—which once might have put them away for years and years, if not life—was a measly six months for the assault of a police officer. The two outlaw bikers had turned into something like folk heroes among the populace of the Southwest, already rather incensed against perceived overstepping into their freedoms and rights and quick to rally around someone fighting back against the government enforcing laws that didn’t actually exist.

  As such, the skeleton crew remaining of the justice department wanted his sentencing to be brief and quiet—enough to punish him,
but not enough to raise a ruckus from an already outraged public demanding his immediate release.

  Any charges against the Wrecking Crew were, of course, brought up and then immediately forgotten. And from the tapes found in Colt’s office, the murderer of Officer Bobby Ranklin at The Hammerin’ Nail was identified, but he was still at large. The Flags were struggling without a leader, fracturing off into different splinter groups, but that didn’t make them any easier to catch so far.

  Ram walked out from the station now, colors on his back, as proud as ever. His face was still bruised, the cuts just starting to heal. The guards remaining in the prison hadn’t been kind to Ram, but he told June he liked it. All the fights kept him in shape.

  Ram approached her on the bike and lifted her up easily, always so strong. She kissed him madly, pulling her hands across his thick shoulders muscles, holding him tight. Everything inside of her felt like lava. They were on their way to a hotel in a different city, but they couldn’t get there quick enough.

  “What was that about?” he asked when they parted.

  “I’m just crazy about you,” she said. “You complaining?”

  “Not at all.” He got that shine in his eye that let her know they were only minutes away from a pronounced, intense lovemaking session. “I think we need to find a different hotel pretty soon, huh?”

  They rode off into the sunset. What came tomorrow would come, but they would face it together.

  # # #

  Thank you!

  I’m delighted you’ve decided to read Hard Rider. Thank you for spending your time with my story.

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  You’ve enjoyed Hard Rider. If you want to read other books by Lydia Pax about alpha male badasses and the women smart and strong enough to capture their hearts, check out the Affairs of the Arena series.

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