My blood ran cold when I spotted the two bikes parked at the edge of her driveway. They were not the Devil’s signature purple and black. They were pure black, and had beaks affixed to the centers of the handlebars. Fuck, I knew it. Shit shit shit. I pulled out my cell phone and typed “eagles at whitney house” with shaking fingers, then sent the text to every number I had - my mom, Bill, a couple of the other guys. Nomad. I knew most of them would never check it in time, but I only needed one to get through and get the army of them on the road.
Now what? I heard a scream inside the house. Did they only just arrive? Is her dad home?
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked the message - it was from Mom. “Couldn’t reach Bill,” it read, “Gunner and co are on the way.”
Great, just who I wanted to see. My problems with him weren’t important, though - all that mattered was that help was coming. But how to hold the Eagles here?
I could disable their bikes. I cursed myself for bringing a gun when I could have used something sharp to puncture their tires silently instead. I’d have to figure something else out. Ducking low, I made my way over to the two motorcycles. I crouched next to the first one and peered at the ignition system. Maybe I could yank a few wires? Which ones? Oh, God. I know nothing. Another scream from inside the house, and the front door swung open. Whitney was shoved out onto the stoop. No time anyway. I pulled my gun and, moving quickly, shot the front tire. The bang! was much louder than I expected. I was completely unprepared and nearly fell over. I should have practiced using this fucking thing. Moving quickly and ignoring the ringing in my head, I turned and fired at the second bike. I saw more than heard the ping as the bullet struck closer the handlebars than the tires. I fired once more and it hit home, slamming into the tire and causing it to begin to deflate. Success!
I heard shouting, and I wondered why they weren’t firing. I peeked around the side of the motorcycle. Two unfamiliar bikers stood at the front of the house aiming their guns toward me. One of them held Whitney by her elbow. Northern Eagles. Why aren’t they firing?
The bikes. They didn’t want to damage their bikes. The bigger guy barked, “Get the fuck out here! We can see you, motherfucker!”
“Drop your gun, shithead!” the blonde guy, the one holding Whitney, shouted at me.
I waved my gun above the bike’s seat. “You drop yours, asshat!”
Both of their guns lowered at the sound of my voice. “A girl?” the blonde asked the taller guy, “A fucking girl?”
“Let my friend go!” I yelled. I just had to stall them long enough for Gunner to arrive. That was all.
“I didn’t sign up to shoot no girl,” the blonde guy said to his friend.
“We’re coming down to talk!” the tall guy called. He left the porch and walked towards the bikes, his blonde friend dragging a struggling Whitney behind him.
“Don’t come any closer!” I fired into the air. “I will fuck up your bikes beyond belief!”
The tall guy pointed his gun at Whitney. “And I’ll shoot your friend, bitch! Now drop your weapon and get out here!”
Stall stall stall. I could just about hear engines in the background over the ringing in my ears - that meant that the two guys could definitely hear them coming. They knew they were on limited time. I just have to convince them not to shoot us. I rubbed my eyes with my fists, hard. I loosened the reigns on my fear; my breathing came more rapidly. I even worked up a few tears as I stood.
“Please don’t shoot her,” I said. I held my hands up, allowing the gun to dangle from one. With my voice high-pitched, squeaky, I begged, “Please don’t hurt her. I’m sorry. Take me with you, too, just don’t hurt my friend.” I sniffled.
“Lower your gun, man,” the blonde said, placing himself between the tall man and Whitney.
The tall guy looked around. listening to the approaching motorcycles and trying to pinpoint their direction. “We’ve got to go,” he said. He pointed at me. “Drop the weapon.” I took my time. I bent and placed it on the ground, shaking as badly as I could manage, whimpering, putting on a real show. I stumbled as I stood, choking out little sobs. He grabbed me by my collar. “Prospect?” he asked with an eyebrow raised. He shook his head. “I knew the Devils had low standards, but Jesus.” He released me with a shove. “On the bike.” Fuckers don’t know I shot the tires. What the hell did they think I was doing? He retrieved my gun as he climbed onto the seat in front of me. Whitney shot me a panicked look, but I kept my face screwed up and tearful.