But who was the biker girl? Was she with the MCB? Only that didn’t feel right. They’d held their position when Stricken had arrived. They hadn’t freaked out and revealed themselves until she’d rushed in, like her sudden and violent arrival had forced their hand.
The building was three stories tall. And long before the Feds had a chance to make it up the stairs, one of the big windows on the top floor shattered. That must have been where the meeting was being held, because a man—probably one of the snake cultists from the tats—crashed through the window. A second later the biker girl leapt through the window after him.
Somehow, she hit the parking lot feet first, rolled, and popped right back up, seemingly unharmed. I couldn’t say the same for the snake cultist, who’d landed flat on his back. Her sudden arrival surprised the MCB agents, and I got my answer as to whether they were on the same team when she throat-punched one, kicked another in the knee, and ran. Trip took pictures.
She now had a big red backpack.
A female agent tried to shoot her, but the rider slid toward her like she was stealing home plate. There was a pop pop as the MCB agent launched a couple of desperate rounds—too high—before the girl hit her in the legs. The agent did a flip. The girl hopped back up and onto her motorcycle. She’d even picked up her helmet during the slide. Not only had that been damn near Earl Harbinger speed, it had been smooth.
As much fun as it was watching the MCB get their asses kicked, I wasn’t even going to try and narrate what I’d just seen to the others, so I just told everyone, “I think the rider’s got the Ward Stone. She’s making a break for it.”
Tires squealed, and then the bike took off, crazy fast. The girl popped a wheelie through the parking lot. Feds had to leap out of the way to not get run over. She hit the street on both wheels and accelerated, zipping between cars.
“Follow that bike!”
Chapter 2
The Newbie punched the gas. Except there was no way this lumbering tub was going to keep up with her, let alone with her being able to weave through traffic. “Milo, Skippy, there’s a motorcycle heading south. She’s got the Ward. You got eyes on her?”
“Got her, Z. Skippy’s following.”
There was a bunch of noise, followed by lots and lots of gunshots. I couldn’t tell if it was from inside the building, the parking garage, or both.
Boone got on the radio. “Cultists are shooting at the Feds. We’ve got us a gunfight back here.”
“Get the hell out of there, Boone,” Earl commanded. The MCB wouldn’t want our help anyway and the last thing we needed was for one of us to catch a stray round. Knowing the MCB, they’d probably bill us for the bullet.
“Already moving. So much for quietly following these assholes home so we could pop them all at once. Stupid Feds.”
The MCB would be focused on their rapidly unfolding gun battle with the reptoid and friends. They were probably here for Stricken, not the Ward Stone. We could still salvage this. Earl must have seen the opportunity too, and immediately started giving a series of rapid-fire orders. The bike was moving fast, but we had an aerial view, and four vehicles in motion. Five, if Holly and the Atlanta Hunters she was with could get to their car before the Feds locked the plaza down. We just needed to stick with the thief long enough to find a place to corner her.
The biker kept accelerating. Hertzfeldt drove like a maniac. Which I guess was the default for Atlanta anyway. Angry drivers honked at us. We made several hard turns. I got tossed off my perch and ended up sliding around on the open floor of the surveillance van. If I’d known we were going to get into a car chase today, I wouldn’t have volunteered to ride in the vehicle that didn’t have any real seats in back. Trip was smart enough to climb forward and get in the passenger seat to buckle himself in.
“She’s trying to shake us,” Hertzfeldt warned as we careened wildly around a corner. Cars honked as we zipped through a red light.
“I doubt she knows we’re behind her,” Trip said. “She’s just trying to get some distance between her and that office before a hundred cops show up.”
“I’m going to lose her.”
“That’s fine. That’s what Skippy’s for. Everybody’s got their job. Yours is to not crash.” Trip keyed his radio. “This is the van. She’s too fast. We can’t maintain visual.”
All I could see was sticky van floor. Luckily Milo had the rider on camera and kept giving everyone directions. “She’s southbound on West Peachtree, passing Ponce De Leon.”
“What is up with you people and all the friggin’ peach trees?” I asked noone in particular. But this was where having the local team driving really came in handy. Boone’s team lived here. This was home turf for them. All Milo had to do was read street names off a computer screen and our locals would know how to box her in. I could hear sirens closing fast. The MCB’s antics had attracted the regular police. I struggled upright so I could see out the window. “I bet she slows down to avoid attracting attention now.”
Sure enough, once we were several blocks from the altercation, Milo told us that the rider had stopped zipping between cars and was now blending in and not breaking any traffic laws. That meant lights and congestion were going to slow her down, but it was better than drawing the attention of a cop. We’d mounted a police scanner in the van, and from the sounds of it, the local cops were pretty agitated because some unexpected downtown bust by Immigration and
