Although why not? She was a pro.
She’d driven a Honda 350, just like this one, for two years, beginning when she was sixteen. When she told her father she was moving back home, he refused to buy her the car he’d promised. The motorcycle was for the interim. She saved her money and got the red Honda, a wonderful bike. She remembered how infuriated her father had been. He’d even forbidden her to get near a motorcycle.
She’d ignored him.
He’d grounded her.
She hadn’t cared. She didn’t want to leave her mother in any case. Then he’d just shut up about it. She had the sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t have cared if she’d killed herself on the thing.
Not that it mattered. He’d gotten his revenge.
She didn’t want to think about that.
She took the turn onto Maitland Road. Soon now, she’d be going back in the other direction, and no one would be after her this time. The road was dark, no lights at all. It was windy. There were thick, tall bushes on both sides. There was no one on the road. What had she done? She smelled the fear on herself. Why the hell had she turned off? James wouldn’t have turned off.
She was a fool, an idiot, and she’d pay for it.
It happened so fast she didn’t even have time to yell or feel scared. She saw the lead biker on her left, waving to her, calling to her, but she couldn’t understand his words. She jerked her bike to the right, hit a gravel patch, slid into a skid, and lost control. She went flying over the top of the bike and landed on the side of the two-lane road, not on the road but in the bushes that lined the road.
She felt like a meteor had hit her-a circle of blinding lights and a whoosh of pain-then darkness blacker than her father’s soul.
Quinlan didn’t want to believe what he’d just seen. “Dillon, Jesus, she’s hurt. Hurry, dammit, hurry.”
The Porsche screeched to a halt not six feet from where the four bikers were standing over Sally. One of them, tall, lanky, short hair, was bending over her.
“Okay, guys,” Quinlan said, “back off now.”
Three of them twisted around to see two guns pointed at them. “We’re FBI and we want you out of here in three seconds.”
“Not yet.” It was the lead biker, who was now on his knees beside her.
“What are you doing to her?”
“I’m a doctor-well, not fully trained, but I am an intern. Simpson’s the name. I’m just trying to see how badly hurt she is.”
“Since you’re the one that knocked her off the road, that sounds weird.”
“We didn’t force her off the road. She went into a skid. Actually, we followed because we saw you go back after her. Hey, man, we just want to help her.”
“As I said, we’re FBI,” Quinlan repeated, looking at the man. “Listen, she’s a criminal. A big-time counterfeiter. Is she going to be all right? Can you tell if she broke anything? Dillon, keep an eye on these bozos.”
Quinlan dropped to his knees. “Can I take off her helmet?”
“No, let me. I guess maybe we should wear helmets. If she hadn’t had one on, she might have scrambled her brains and not necessarily left them inside her head. You’re really FBI? She’s really a criminal?”
“Of course she is. What are you doing? Okay, you’re seeing if her arms are broken. She’d better be all right or I’ll have to flatten you. You scared the shit out of her. Yeah, she’s your typical criminal type. Why isn’t she conscious yet?”
At that moment Sally moaned and opened her eyes. It was dark. She heard men’s voices, lots of them. Then she heard James.
“No,” she said. “No, it’s not possible you caught me. I didn’t think it could be you. I was wrong again.”
He leaned down over her and said one inch from her nose, “I caught you, all right. And this is the last time I’m going to do it. Now just be quiet and lie still.”