You Are Mine Little Sister (by Syra Tucker) novel Chapter 164

They came from an angle that wanted to be invisible, a seam in the smoke where a car could slip through and vanish. For a half-second I thought about taking the shot but discarded the idea, knowing I wasn't getting them.

Their car was faster than mine. So, I didn't try to use mine. I ran off to a power bike resting on the ground close by. One of the men had been trying to escape on it when my bullet met him.

I moved the bike away from its dead owner, thumbed the kick-start, and the engine licked awake with an eager snarl.

I heard someone yell my name. Probably Miles or Eric. There was no time to look back. Voices were now a tide I didn't bother to surf.

I kept the throttle open, going after Blayne.

'Move faster!'

'He's getting away!'

'We'll make it worth the while!'

I let my companions do the talking while I handled the driving. Blayne was moving at a crazy speed, but the bike was crazier, and in no time, I'd covered a lot of distance between us.

Then they decided to come at me with bullets.

A hand peeped from the rear window, a gun aimed at me. I slanted right, tucking my bike into the car's blind side. The shot braided the air where I'd been a breath before.

I knew his next move before he climbed to the roof to get a clear angle. I braced the bike with my knees, one hand on the throttle, the other working my gun. Controlling both felt like controlling lightning — dangerous and somehow, easy.

The moment his ugly head popped up from the roof, I put my sights on the head and let the trigger sing. take him long to fold.

Another tried to answer from the opposite window. This time I didn't duck. I leaned into the recoil and filled the space between my barrel and his face with one clean sentence. He slumped like a blown-out candle.

With two people dead, I knew there would only be two more left in the car: Blayne and the driver.

I slammed the throttle and the bike lurched under me. The world blurred sideways; trees became slashes of green. Getting ahead of them was stupid. It put me in a position where I was an easy target, but I was fresh out of damns.

I cut the bike in front of them and left a long kill zone between us. Then I raised the gun and started to work. I shot at the tyres multiple times until the car coughed and hiccuped.

Finally, Blayne decided to show his face. Peeping his ugly head through the window, he shot at me, but luck kept me breathing.

I kept shooting. The windscreen spiderwebbed and then surrendered. One round found the driver's chest and the man folded like bad origami. Seconds stacked on each other. For a heartbeat I thought the car would barrel through me. Instead it swerved, grunted, then slammed into a tree with a sound like a world ending. The bumper dug itself into bark and smoke uncurled from mangled metal in small plumes.

My companions went feral:

Blayne's been caught!

Blayne's been caught!

Yes. Yes. Kill him.

Hurt him.

The smoke around the car kept going worse. For a flashing second I wanted to watch the whole thing go up. But that'd mean me losing him to the fire. No. That wasn't a good idea. I took the hunger from my chest and smothered it.

I swung my leg off the bike and walked toward the wreck. An image from seven weeks ago unreeled slick and clear in my head: her tied in the center of the room, unconscious and helpless.

'Bomb is going off in five minutes. Think you can save her in time?'

The text was still as clear as it had been the day it was sent.

I yanked the back door open and hauled him out. Something unlatched in my chest at the sight of him — the burden of hunting him for days.

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