Page 59 of The Biker's Brother

“What’s wrong?” Brant answered.

“We’re thirty miles south of Alamagordo and we’ve got a helicopter trying to land on the roof of the car.”

“Keep going and don’t stop. I’ll get you some back up, but it may take twenty minutes.”

“What do you mean?”

“That car is capable of everything a car can do. Try to drive your way out of this. If you can’t, if that thing tries to land close to you, shoot the gas tank and get the hell away.”

Brandon swallowed, his mind racing. “Okay.”

“Keep the phone handy.”

“Okay.”

The call went dead.

There was just one problem. He couldn’t ‘drive his way out of it’ because Cami was behind the wheel. And they couldn’t exactly stop on the side of the road and change drivers. He’d been an idiot agreeing to let her behind the wheel and now they were going to pay for that mistake.

Brandon tried to remember if he’d ever felt fear before. Maybe he had, but nothing like the needle pricks of adrenaline running through his system. His molars pressed against each other as he grappled with getting his emotions under control and he realized, like a lightning bolt epiphany, that his fear was for Cami’s safety, not his own.

He steadied his voice before he spoke.

“Help is coming. We just have to keep driving.”

“Help? What kind of help?”

“Back up. That’s all I know, but I trust my old man.”

“Your old man? You mean your father?”

“Yes. He owns Sanctuary Security.”

“Oh.”

“Just keep driving. Don’t speed up. Don’t slow down.”

She nodded a little too fast and he knew, without checking her pulse, that her heart was pounding.

“If they get me…”

“They’re not going to get you, Rose.”

Brandon unbuckled his seat belt and hauled the duffel with the weapons to the floor board behind them and unzipped it. He set two pistols in the drink holder console after checking to make sure they were loaded. He hadn’t brought a rifle. When choosing what weapons might be needed on this sort of assignment, shooting the gas tank of a helicopter wasn’t a scenario that had come to mind.

He pulled out the Smith and Wesson 657 Varminter six shooter. It was made for prairie dogs and their kin, but it was the closest thing to ideal in his bag of goodies.

The Varminter had a red dot optic for closer range, which meant that even if fear had him at a disadvantage, he’d know where his shot was going before he fired. If the target exceeded the optic range, there was also a Bushnell Scope that could get him accuracy up to a hundred yards. Either way, he wasn’t going to be able to set up a tripod and take his time like he was a weekend enthusiast at the gun range.

Brandon had loaded the sixth bullet when the helicopter swooped down in front of the car. He heard Cami’s sharp intake of breath, but she didn’t shriek or scream or react like women in the movies. She shook from trembling, but managed to keep her hands steady on the wheel as she jerked the vehicle to the left. A lot of vehicles would have responded to that maneuver by rolling off into the ditch, but the Hyundai kept all four tires on the road.

“Good girl. Don’t worry, Rose. You’re not going with them. No matter what.”

She glanced over at Brandon as if to try to discern the honesty of that pronouncement. Her brows were drawn together and her hands were still shaking. She seemed to find the reassurance she was seeking in Brandon’s expression because, after that, she calmed. Visibly.

“No matter what,” she repeated.

The way she said that told Brandon that her years with Michaels had been even worse than she’d described.

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