Page 44 of The Belle and the Biker

Crash accelerates, moving through gaps in traffic. Clinging to him, I twist my head around and look again. The green sedan is boxed in between two other cars, with someone in the right lane refusing to let him pass. Our pursuer honks and then sticks his gun out the side window, waving it aggressively. The driver on the right swerves in panic and tries to speed up, but now there's a car blocking him, too.

Crash manages to dig his phone out of his jacket and call while driving, yelling our location into his phone. The motorcycle wobbles dangerously. Then he speeds up and takes an exit off the highway. We zip through the downtown area of a middle-sized town. He pulls into a crowded strip shopping center and parks in front of a row of stores.

"You all right?" he demands.

"Oh, sure." My voice is a terrified squeak. "Might need new underwear."

He turns off the bike and then steps off. I slide off too. Suddenly, his hands are moving up and down my body—in very intimate places. We just survived a near-death experience, but is this the time and place? Mothers are walking by and covering their children's eyes. I should tell him to stop fondling me. I really should.

Finally, he stops and steps back. "Okay, you don't seem to have any holes shot in you."

Oh.

My face flames with embarrassment, and I pray he doesn't notice.

He turns and scowls at the remains of his mirror. "Bastard shot my bike, though. It is on."

"Well, I'm sorry for your loss," I say huffily.

"Who knew that we'd be leaving this morning?"

"To the best of my knowledge, only Aunt Hepzibah and her servants. And Daisy's family. Oh, and the sheriff. I called him yesterday because he wanted me to keep him updated. And I would trust Sheriff Buckley with my firstborn child. When I have one. You know what I mean. That's a man who would take a bullet for you."

"I'd take a bullet for you," Crash snaps. If I didn't know better, I'd think he sounded jealous.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that." I sort of hate him, but I don't want anything to happen to him.

Crash glances at my purse and mouths the word "phone."

Puzzled, I pull out my phone and hand it to him. He takes his phone and my phone tucks them in the saddlebag on the side of his bike, and then gestures at me to follow him. He leads me inside a small Italian restaurant.

"Wait right here," he says, gesturing at an empty table. "I need to talk to the bartender."

He goes over to the bar and, after chatting with the bartender, walks behind the bar and uses the phone there. He talks to someone for a few minutes and then comes back to join me at the table.

"We're close to our final destination. We have people coming to meet us in about forty-five minutes. In the meantime, I ordered for us," he says. "Fettucine Alfredo. Your favorite pasta, right?"

It is. Interesting that he knows that.

"That'll be fine. Why did you leave our phones outside the restaurant?"

"There's a good chance he's tracking us by your phone. I just can't think of any other way he could have found us." He glances at the bike. "And he might have hacked my phone, too, depending on how good this guy is. Phones have all kinds of apps that are constantly tracking your location. Weather apps, shopping apps… This person could have accessed and used one of those apps to find you. They can also be hacked and used as listening devices, and I don't want him to overhear our conversations."

"Seriously? You think this person could have found one or both of our phone numbers?" I wince. "I hate to even think it, but could he have been following me from Aunt Hepzibah's house?"

"I was checking behind us very carefully, and I'm pretty confident the guy wasn't following us up until very recently. He picked us up hours after we'd left." He shakes his head. "Whoever this guy is, he's good. Or he has an in with law enforcement. Or maybe he even is law enforcement. It wouldn't have to be the sheriff," he adds. "If the sheriff emailed anyone about your case and mentioned where you were headed, this person might have accessed that report."

A shiver runs through me, and goose pimples pebble my arms.

"This is crazy. I can't believe I witnessed some psycho shooting a guy, and he turns out to be a professional assassin. Or a rogue cop."

"Maybe the shooting wasn't an accident," Crash muses. "You say he stole the hipster's parking place, and the guy came over and screamed at him. Maybe he set it up that way in case anyone was watching so it would look like a simple argument, and nobody would figure out the guy was targeted."

"Should we call the police and tell them that?" I feel a swell of hope. "That might give them a lead, and they could see if the murder victim had any known enemies."

He nods. "Yeah, it's worth passing that on. I'll call Axl as soon as we get burner phones. We can't use our phones anymore until this a-hole's caught. I'll have someone with forensics experience examine the phones and see if they can identify any tracking apps, but spy software can be very subtle."

Our meals arrive shortly after that, and we tuck into some mediocre pasta. The dessert is better; it's hard to go wrong with tiramisu.

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