Then Roy gunned it aiming for the motorcycle. “He’s someone.”

York braced his arm on the dash.

The motorcycle turned off his lights. Still, with their headlights, they could make him out.

Shots, two, pinged off the car even as he sped by them.

Their headlights pinged out. Roy bit back a word and hit the brakes.

“What is he playing at?” York said.

He turned. In the silver of the moonlight, he made out the bike turning, heading back. “This isn’t good. Lights, Roy.”

Just as the motorcycle sped by, something pinged into the back seat.

York spotted it and his heart just—stopped. Then, “Grenade!” He reached for the door and threw himself out.

Rolled.

The car exploded. A plume of fire mushroomed into the night. York covered his head with his hands, kept rolling.

Fell into a ditch.

He scrambled to his knees. “Roy!”

Up the road, the motorcycle had turned, headed back.

York found his footing, scrabbled up the embankment to the burning car. “Roy!”

He didn’t see a body burning to death, but the blaze roared.

Shots. They pinged off the car and York ducked back into the ditch.

But the fire illuminated his attacker, and as the motorcycle neared, his hands landed on a good-sized rock, larger than the one that had broken the fiat’s window.

He measured the distance and then, as the man came into the light, he fired at the wheel.

The rider must have seen it because he jerked the bike to avoid the projectile.

His attempt turned the front wheel just enough—the rock struck the side of the front tire, the bike wavered, skidded and went down. It spun out on the pavement, headed toward the opposite ditch. The man spilled off.

Bullseye.

York took off, headed toward the attacker and landed on him just as he pushed himself off the pavement. Helmeted, the man seemed barely shaken by his road rash, and York kicked him in the gut, hoping to send him back to the ground.

It worked, but the man rolled, found his knees and popped up, still helmeted.

But unarmed.

York spotted a pistol—looked like a .22 magnum, semi—under the firelight, some ten feet away. Probably held ten rounds, plus, and he’d pulled off three, maybe five.

If the magazine had been full, he had six bullets left.

York leaped for the gun.

The man leaped on him, and he woofed to the ground, some two hundred pounds on him. Worse the man had uncanny aim—he kneed York in the back.

York howled—didn’t care—but rolled and sent a fist into the man’s groin.

Turnabout.

His attacker fell back, and York reached for the gun.

Gone.

He turned back. His attacker was fighting to get to his feet, then he fell back, the gun out.

Fired.

Missed, although York felt the heat of it tan his cheek.