Bull (Rebel Riders MC Book 6) by Zahra Girard

Author:Zahra Girard [Girard, Zahra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-09-11T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Cindy

The driver steers our screaming car through traffic, cranking the wheel and surging through an open gap to send us tearing down a side street. Glass shatters and peppers the back of my head while bullets whizz by so close I can feel the breeze as they pierce the air.

I scream. Our assistant screams. Bull bellows in anger and returns fire, leaning out the window and winging one biker to send him crashing into a parked car.

Another scream breaks Bull’s lips and the right sleeve of his jacket turns a worrying red.

Somehow, through it all, our driver keeps a cool head.

When this is all over, and if we’re still alive, he deserves a nice tip.

Our car swerves and takes a corner so hard our tires screech and a trail of smoking rubber burns in our wake. More cracks break out and a burst of tinkling glass falls all around me like crystalline snow. My world is a storm of screaming gears, rapid gunshots, and the smell of burnt rubber and gunpowder.

“Take that turn, get us off the main road and get us somewhere quiet and industrial. We need to get away from the fucking public,” Bull yells above the chaos.

“Are you hurt?” I say to him.

“I don’t have time for that, right now. Driver, get us the fuck out of here.”

With two sharp pulls of the wheel, the driver sets us on a new course. I feel so helpless watching the violent scene play out around me in vivid detail, yet unable to do a single damn thing to effect it.

Then Bull tosses me his phone. I look up at him, wide-eyed, wondering. It’s not like we can call the cops.

“What should I do?”

“Just dial the last number on the call list. It’ll be Creole. Tell him we’re heading southbound off the main roads, about five miles from the bank. Tell him to follow the sound of the fucking shootout and get his ass over here.”

It feels like I’m outside my body looking down at myself as I make the call. Somehow I’m calm when Creole answers on the second ring and I hear myself repeat Bull’s instructions and then hang up, while all around me the car is riddled with bullet holes.

“What did he say?”

I look at him. He’s furious, but still focused. How can he be so in control while three men are trying to spill his blood all over the back seat of this rental car?

“I don’t remember. I think he’s on his way.”

Bull’s response disappears beneath the sound of bullets and I try to huddle ever deeper to keep out of the crossfire.

“Hold on,” the driver yells.

Then I’m thrown sideways, inertia pressing me flat against the car door and sending Bull sprawling atop me. There’s a crash and the car shudders with the violent impact of a four-hundred-pound motorcycle slamming into our back end. Our driver hardly skips a beat, planting his foot to the gas and putting us back in motion like we didn’t just wreck a motorcycle with our own car.

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