Quicksilver Dreams(63)

                I bit down hard on the hand holding my mouth. I tasted blood.

                “Fuck!” A voice snarled. The man snatched his hand from my mouth, which gave me enough time to scream. Loud. Shrill. Adrenaline added strength to my struggles, making it hard for them to keep a tight hold of me. I got a leg free! I kicked the crew-cut guy, using the heavy wooden platform of my shoe, but not with enough force to do any damage, which added to my crushing fear.

                The little old lady with the tiny dog came out of the store several yards away. We made eye contact. Her dismay was clear, but she was so far and fragile. What could she do? A young woman was several feet behind her with her cell phone in hand, but there was no time.

                “Hold her tighter,” the bald guy growled, covering my mouth with more force, leaving me no room to sink my teeth into his skin again.

                I kept fighting, but they were stronger, and that’s when I knew. I couldn’t get away. I would never see the light of day again. Just like the Vietnamese girl Crew Cut had killed during a tour of Vietnam. I could see that he wanted to hurt me. Badly.

                This was my death sentence. Right here. Tears filled my eyes as I realized my struggles were futile, and I was getting tired.

                A roaring sound grew until a motorcycle came ripping up on the sidewalk, the rider wearing a black helmet, the engine blazing, echoing off the building. As it went by, a powerful, jean-clad leg with a heavy black boot whip-kicked Crew Cut, who was holding my legs, dead center on his face. Blood spurted like a faucet from his nose. He let go of me with a howl of pain, grabbing at his face.

                My feet were free!

                “Let’s go!” a male voice yelled from in the van, and Crew Cut scrambled up from the ground into the vehicle, still holding his gushing nose.

                I kicked back at Baldy’s shin and tried to ram the back of my head into his nose as the motorcyclist spun around to come back at us. Immediately, he threw me down in his bid to escape. I fell heavily to the ground on all fours, crying out as sharp pain radiated up my arms, and my teeth clacked together. Baldy dove in the open door of the van as it swerved into traffic and disappeared around the next corner.

                The motorcycle came toward me.

                It took a moment, as I had to breathe heavily and fight back a choking ball of emotion, but I clambered to my feet clumsily, stumbling, wincing, ready to thank my savior as he pulled even with me.

                “You okay?”

                I recognized the harsh voice immediately. Ryder. His name was a soft, caressing sigh across my mind. Crashing relief, warmth and security, along with a violent case of the shakes, washed over me.

                “I—I think so,” I replied tentatively, looking down at my trembling hands.

                He flipped his visor up. His pale eyes were mad-dog angry, and his jaw was clenched tightly, teeth gnashing, as though he was trying to contain his rage.

                “Get on.” He looked ruthless. Dangerous.

                “Ryder... How did you...?”

                “Get on.” He all but barked the order in a low, rough-hewn voice. He wanted to kill those guys. I could see it in the way his body thrummed with energy, taut, tense, ready for action, which was awe inspiring.

                “I’m in a dress.” I looked down at myself, surprised that I’d managed to retain my purse. Feeling awkward and like I was in someone else’s reality, I slid the long strap over my head diagonally, not sure what else to do with it or what to do next. It wasn’t my finest thinking moment.