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One
Rylee McCormick pushed her bike harder. It could take it. A pileup on I-90, one she’d narrowly escaped, had slowed her down. The sun dipped lower on the horizon with each passing second, taking what little semblance of safety daylight provided right along with its waning rays.
She had to find cover, fast. Taking the next curve at a speed most wouldn’t dare, she willed the distance between her and her pursuer to lengthen. It wouldn’t—she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that—but that didn’t stop her from wishing for it. As soon as she came around the other side of the bend, she gunned it.
She’d spotted the rider a few miles back, power blasting from his rumbling engine. It was fast and mean, otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to keep up with her. She could almost convince herself it was just a hot rod out for an evening ride, but the driver was as reckless as she was, taking the corners at breakneck speeds and keeping her within his sights—for the most part.
That kind of fearless driving said the rider was either angry or desperate—maybe both—and he wasn’t afraid of dying.
The vampire bastard hunting her had risen before the setting sun. That could only mean one thing. They had money.
In early morning light and just before dark, leather provided adequate protection for the skin. But only the extraordinarily wealthy and powerful had access to the state-of-the-art material the helmet and visor were made of to keep vamps from frying to a crisp during daytime hours.
Thankfully, the people she worked for didn’t have a strict timetable. They just wanted the job done. Period. Now, she was on the home stretch—almost. All she had to do was lose the vamp, find her tracker, and retrieve the hard drive. Then she could head back to Blue Creek and take a mini-vacation before she signed up for another gig.
Slowing just enough to keep from ditching, she took another curve, but not before catching a glimpse of black and chrome. He was gaining on her. Fuck.
A sign, illuminated by a spotlight from beneath, greeted her as she rounded the next bend. Dexter, Population 3900.
Relief poured into her. She’d find cover for the night. An abandoned warehouse, a shed, it didn’t matter. As long as she could lock the place down, she’d take it. She had planned to contact the tracker as soon as she got into town, but that wasn’t happening. Not with the fanged bastard on her ass, drooling at the chance to suck her dry. She was all about taking risks, but only when they made sense. She didn’t have a death wish.
Ignoring the posted speed limit, she tore through the sleepy town. Hopefully, there wasn’t a deputy hanging around. Not that it mattered. She wouldn’t stop if they tried to pull her over. She might as well sign death warrants for both of them if she did that.
Dodging a pothole bigger than her Ducati’s front tire, she spotted her saving grace down the road with two bay doors open wide and light shining from inside. She aimed straight for it. The small-town garage wasn’t ideal, but as long as she could reach it before the one chasing her came into view again, she’d figure it out.
A one-hundred-watt smile and a bit of cold hard cash could convince just about anyone to pretend they hadn’t seen a thing.
She took the driveway faster than a sane person would. Her bike lurched, but Rylee kept control over the uneven ground. She came to a screeching stop on the cracked cement floor. Not bothering to look for whoever might be working, she knocked the kickstand into place before hopping off the bike and rushing to the entrance. The metallic rattle of chains sounded loud in the garage as she slammed the first bay shut.
***
Niko Garcia heard the roar of the motorcycle long before it came barrelling down the road. What kind of idiot ripped through town like that? He’d have to let Jaxon know that a reckless kid was driving around like his ass was on fire at night.
Mrs. Bartle’s car was ready a couple of hours ago, but she’d begged for him to let her get it after work. Otherwise, he’d be home right now, enjoying a cold one on his back porch—or better yet, out in the forest running his wolf—instead of locking up at half past seven in the evening. The tired nurse had just left.
A single headlight came around the corner.
Jesus. They were rolling. He waited inside the bay. He’d get a bike description and maybe a plate number. The Alpha would want to talk to whoever that was, and in a town so small, it shouldn’t be hard to ID them.
He wiped his greasy hands on the towel he’d slung over his shoulder, watching as the biker took the driveway to the shop at breakneck speed rather than flying down the street. The motorcycle bounced hard, but it kept coming.
What the hell? With a loud screech and an impressive show of fantastic control, the rider came to a stop inside the bay, not twenty feet from him.
Leaning against the workbench, he watched as the woman—there was no mistaking she was female—killed the engine and jumped off the bike before bolting for the garage door. Without hesitating, she grasped the chain and yanked, slamming it shut. She was about to dash for the other when a second motorcycle came tearing around the
