Eric bumped the back of her bicep with his shoulder. “You know how to ride?”
“No.” She gulped, the sensation of his breath on her cheek too delicious to ignore. His question sounded as if he meant for her to leave while he stayed behind and defended her. Even if she’d known how, she would’ve lied and said she didn’t. Her leaving-him-behind days were done. She knew who she could live without. He wasn’t one of them. “Do you?”
“I will in a minute.” He holstered his weapon and crammed his pack into the other saddlebag. Grunting, he nudged one of the gasoline tanks near the bike carefully with his boot. It nearly tipped over, but he caught it before its noisy clatter could give them away. The other can didn’t budge. Had to be full. She hoped.
A loud crash at the front of Rosie’s B&B urged Shea into action. She unscrewed the bike’s gasoline cap while Eric removed the lid from the can and extended the spout. With another grunt, he hefted the heavy can off the floor and filled the tank. Gasoline glugged, but slowly. Eric seemed calm while anxiety ratcheted up her spine. Hurry.
Heavy footsteps sounded inside Rosie’s home. Men’s harsh voices. Professor Grover’s murderers were back. Shea swallowed hard. Hurry. Hurry.
Eric jerked the tarp away from the rest of the bike, revealing a helmet and two leather jackets setting on a wooden stand beside it. What were the chances that Paddy and Rosie O’Banner were bikers once upon a time?
He handed her the helmet. “Here. Put this on.”
“Where’s yours?” she asked as she accepted it, needing him protected, too.
“Don’t worry about me. Put it on,” he growled, a hard light in his eyes as he shrugged into the larger of the two jackets. “The jacket, too. Do it.”
She didn’t want him at risk, but she had no choice but to obey. After wiping the dust off the helmet, she secured it over her head and adjusted the strap. Her fingers trembled as she hurriedly worked the zipper of the leather jacket. It fit, although a size too large.
Loud banging sounded from inside. She glanced back at the door when someone jerked at the handle. A loud French voice roared on the other side, quickening her pulse.
They’re here. Whoever stood on the other side of that door meant business. It shuddered. The rope stretched tight. The man yelled again.
Eric swung one leg over the bike’s leather seat and offered her a hand. “Get on.”
Shea grabbed onto his wrist and forearm, but climbing up onto a motorcycle presented more obstacles than she’d expected. Once her butt hit the leather seat, she asked, “Where do I put my feet?”
“There.” He pointed at the metal bar protruding from the side of the bike near the wheels. “On the pegs. Whatever you do, don’t bump the exhaust pipe.” He meant the wider tube-like pipe extending from the engine. “Once this baby starts up, it will burn your skin off. Be careful.”
She positioned her bare feet as he’d directed.
“Where are your shoes, damn it?” he snapped.
“My boots were full of water. I didn’t have time to look for shoes in Rosie’s closet before they—”
“You can’t ride a bike with no boots. What were you thinking?”
“Of living,” she answered honestly, “I guess I didn’t know I’d be riding on the back of a motorcycle today or I’d have come prepared.”
“Shit,” he snarled, but what else could she do? Resting the balls of her feet on the pegs, she wasn’t sure how close she should sit to him or what she should hang onto. He radiated nothing but hostility at the moment. How did a woman grab onto that?
Instead of him, she grasped the edge of her seat, hoping that would suffice. No way. She teetered the instant he toed the kickstand free. With another growl, he planted his boots on each side of the bike. Reaching both hands behind him, Eric grabbed beneath her knees and jerked her forward. Into him. Intimately into him. Her heaving breasts to his very solid leather covered back. Her twill covered pubic bone to his denim-clad butt.
The male body she’d craved for too many lonely months was now perfectly aligned with hers. Heat flooded her to her core even as she cringed. Tentatively, she circled his waist and placed her palms flat against his stomach, afraid to breathe.
He had come for her. He didn’t know it when he did, but here he was. Angry, yes, but saving her just as he’d once saved men on far off battlefields and villages of Afghanistan.
Eric turned his head, his voice deep and gravelly. “Once I start this bike, they’ll be all over us. Hang on tight. They’ll be shooting. Don’t be afraid. We’ll be hard to hit while we’re moving. You ready?”
“I am,” she declared boldly, clutching him.
Aishling chose that moment to jump onto Eric’s lap.
He brushed her off. “I said no. You stay here.”
The crazy cat jumped back up as quickly as her paws hit the dirt floor.
“Damn it, cat, take off,” Eric growled, taking hold of her with both hands this time and settling her back to her feet. “I don’t have room. You have to stay.”
Aishling lasted a half second at his feet, this time using her claws as she climbed his thigh like a tree truck. Huffing, he glanced over his shoulder. “I guess the cat’s coming with us.”
Shea relaxed her grip while he unzipped his leather jacket and stuffed Aishling inside. “But if you scratch me one time, kitty, you’re outta there,” he warned her as if she might understand. “I will leave your fluffy butt behind.”
No, you won’t, Shea thought. She couldn’t help the tiny smile stretching her lips. This was Eric, through and through, thinking he could start up a motorcycle with a cat under his arm. She grabbed hold of him, this time with more confidence as she pressed her cheek between his shoulder blades. When he covered her interlocked fingers with one big hand and squeezed, the warmth of that simple contact took her by storm. She blinked away the glistening moisture clouding her vision. Eric might be angry, but deep down, he was still the only man she loved.
Releasing her, he grabbed hold of the handlebars. Two kicks from his right boot and the engine sputtered to life with a growling roar, alerting the whole world of their whereabouts. Apparently Aishling didn’t mind the noise. Eric hadn’t sent her flying.
Shea squeezed him tighter, panic skulking up her spine again. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry!
He yanked an overhead chain, one she hadn’t seen until the muscles rippled across his back and the single, garage door lifted. She closed her eyes and remembered those handsome muscles stretched over her. Every last one of them.
Sunlight poured into their last stronghold. Shea closed her eyes as the powerful man beneath her arms commanded the motorized beast to fly. With another thunderous rumble, the Harley lifted its front wheel from the ground before it dug in to do what it did best.
And they were off.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Run like hell. That was all Eric had on his mind. What was it Aishling had said in his dream? And then you’ll need to fly. He brushed the insane notion that she’d known beforehand he and Shea would need to fly down the back roads of Ireland—on a Harley.
Gunning the motorcycle, he lowered his face, hoping the mud smeared Aviators he’d found in the jacket pocket would keep the wind out of his eyes. There’d only been one helmet in the garage, so of course, it went to Shea. Things might get dicey, but she needed to live. So did the damned cat purring inside what had to be Paddy O’Banner’s leather bomber jacket.
The bike was small and had no fairing around the handlebars to protect its rider from bugs and road debris, not like that was Eric’s first concern. All he needed was speed.
Swerving around the big, bad Hummer rumbling in Rosie’s front yard, he squeezed the handgrip into second gear. A heavy-duty push bar hung off the front of the chassis. No wonder the cab rolled so many times. It never stood a chance.
The Harley rapped into third. Finally, fourth. Eric didn’t look back, just hunkered into the wind, held onto Shea’s arms with one hand, and let the bike’s pistons do t
heir thing. The gentle purr of a contented feline against his ribs soothed one worry away. Crazy cat.
Finding Shea in place of Finn in Rosie’s kitchen was the surprise of a lifetime, and God, he’d wanted nothing more than to haul her off to the nearest flat surface and claim her once more. But he was pretty sure he’d scared her with that initial, passionate hug. She’d stiffened enough that he’d reevaluated what he thought he’d seen in her eyes. She’d seemed skittish, as if she’d run, and bottom line—he couldn’t lose her.
If she even meant to stay. He didn’t know, so he’d backed off with the I’m-so-glad-to-see-you, and restrained his runaway heart. He’d closed down, not willing to be hurt like the last time. They needed to talk, but not now.
He raced the motorcycle along the road that ran to Grover’s burned out cottage and into the dirt path beyond. For miles the Hummer followed, until Eric took a sharp right into a narrow country driveway and ended up in someone’s backyard. The problem with most Irish yards was the country’s love of stone fences.
Eric and Shea were quickly boxed in, but no matter. Leaning backward, he urged the front wheel of the Harley onto a carefully stacked pile of peat bricks, and from there, onto the stone fence. The irregular shapes made for a rough ride, but it also ensured the Hummer couldn’t follow, not unless the French Legionnaires intended to use that vehicle as a battering ram for all the other fences that would surely stand in their way.
Eric thought himself safely out of their reach until another black motorcycle raced around the Hummer, kicking up grass as it slowed in a wide arc. By then, two of the Frenchmen were boots on the ground, their weapons drawn. They bellowed and waved the intruder off.
The cocky rider didn’t comply, but instead dug a rutted circle in the soft turf with his rear wheel, spattering both men. This new intruder was a slender man dressed completely in black leathers. His face was hidden behind the darkened shield of a topnotch helmet. His bike was top of the line, too, complete with protective windshield. Larger gas tank. A scabbard at his right for the automatic rifle strapped in it.
This operation kept going from bad to worse.
“Anyone you know?” Eric asked over his shoulder, keeping his eye on that AR while they made their exit. All he had was a pistol tucked under his left arm and barely enough ammo, a popgun in the face of that bullet-spitting machine.
“I don’t know any of them,” Shea answered. “Do you?”
“Hell, no.” Time to go.
Accelerating along the top of the narrow wall, Eric balanced the bike as long as he dared. Out of that yard, into the next. Once out of the Hummer’s reach, he dropped both wheels off the edge and gunned the Harley. It responded with a roaring burst of power, but now Eric had more than a weaponized four-wheeler and stationary tough guys to worry about. The intruder to this nightmare had no problem clearing stone fences. His bike soared overhead and landed in front of Eric and Shea.
Shea stiffened, her arms tight around Eric’s waist, while he gave the intruder an outright challenge and charged the guy, forcing him to serve to avoid being run over. Twisting the handle grip, Eric commanded the Harley to fly, and—just like Aishling said they would—they did. Over stone walls. Through shrubbery and thorny brambles. Under low-lying branches and around nervous sheep that went in ten different directions when spooked.
But Eric couldn’t shake the guy. Still in the lead, he raced through the field behind the row of homes, the biker following. More stone fences, all about three feet high and all covered with greenery, created a surreal obstacle course. There were no straight lines to this Irish madness, just meandering piles of stone, some slipshod, some perfectly stacked. Intermittent breaks with a single board for a gate kept the sheep from straying into fields of crops and others of weeds. A taller fence, maybe five feet high, bordered the others as far as Eric could see. There was no way out!
Divots of dirt flew up from the stony ground at his right, and he ducked. Damn it! The intruder had upped the ante. Those were bullets!
“Hang on tight,” Eric growled to Shea, the feel of her slender body tucked against him a blessing he was prepared to die for. He gunned the bike and flew, the wind in his hair, but there was nowhere to run. Not unless he could find a break in that outer fence. Still he pressed forward. Never give up. Must go faster.
Rounding yet another corner, he banked hard to the right, missing the only trail he’d seen in this maze. The Harley ended up in a field of corn. Tall stalks covered his bike. But the field wasn’t American-sized. The end of the line lay straight ahead in the form of what was, no doubt, yet another wall of stone beneath miles of green ivy.
He powered the bike down, hidden from sight for the moment. The intruder had taken the trail, roaring off at Eric’s right, while Eric and Shea went nowhere. Patting the warm bulge under his jacket, Eric thought, what now, Aishling?
Shea’s slender fingers intertwined with his and Eric let them work their magic. For a minute. Too soon, that guy would be back. He’d see the crushed stalks of corn, and he’d know where Eric had gone. With Shea riding in back, she’d take the first bullet. Not going to happen.
Eric turned the bike and headed back the way they had come. With their intruder racing in the opposite direction, it’d take him a couple minutes before he caught his mistake. Puttering along in low gear, Eric thought he’d seen metal posts along this stretch of what he hoped was the general boundary fence that bordered the others. Metal posts might mean a gate. He kept his ear tuned for their latest assassin.
Shea’s thighs trembled against him, but wasn’t she in the perfect womanly position? Her legs spread wide, holding onto him like a lover. He cupped her kneecap, then ran his hand over her sun-warmed thigh, offering what little comfort he could. If only they were facing each other.
Ah, there they are. Two round metal posts. Up ahead.
“I think I know a way out of here,” Eric said as he hunkered low, peering beyond the tangled ivy between the posts. At last. Some fine Irishman had added a metal gate, not like it worked as thickly wrapped with green vines as it was.
Eric didn’t dare leave the bike behind. No, somehow they had to get through this gate to whatever lay on the other side. Sidling the Harley to the gate, he reached through the ivy until his fingers met rusted horizontal rails. It had been here a long time, but there was give to it. Rusted hinges maybe. Oxidized rails. Good enough. Still on the Harley, Eric leaned his weight into it. He shoved the gate, then shoved harder. At last, it creaked, rustled, and groaned. If I can just hit it hard enough to...
“Hold on,” he told Shea as he revved the Harley into a wide circle until it faced what he hoped was a weak spot in the wall. Hunkering low, he spurred the bike forward. Lifting the front wheel at the last second, he hit the center of that ivy-covered passage.
Oomph. It was Harley time, along with plenty of dust and moths. But gradually, the gate gave enough that the bike won. Both wheels cleared the fence. The good thing about Irish ivy? It didn’t break, and this plant—or plants—had been growing forever. Its many creeping branches and arms, fingers and toes, were dense and woody, downright fibrous, and all had intertwined like a massive net. Once Eric cleared the opening, the pernicious ivy sprang back into place, nearly pulling the gate upright.
He killed the engine, his heart hammering loud enough to wake the dead. “Get off,” he ordered Shea. Her bare feet had no sooner hit the dirt than he pulled Aishling out of his jacket and handed her to Shea. She cradled the cat like a baby, and the crazy thing snuggled.
Laying the bike on its side, Eric scrambled back to the wall. He dropped to his knees and hefted the sagging doorway firmly back into place, bracing it with his shoulder so that it appeared solid, at least on his side. God, this has to work.
A few minutes later, the intruder approached the wall slowly, still revving his engine as if taunting them. Eric held as still as he could, given the adrenaline pumping through his veins. This madman had to believe they’d gotten away.
Yeah. Not likely. The Harley had left a clear set of tire tracks straight up to the breach in the wall. No guy was dumb enough to believe his adversary could just disappear. The intruder was probably deciding whether or not to search on foot. Eric would have. Just to be sure.
With only hope on his side and a helluva lot of nerve, Eric strained to listen. There on his knees. In some farmer’s pasture. If this insane idea works, it’ll be the biggest miracle ever.
The bike rumbled along the fence line and away. Eric lowered his head, thankful for the reprieve, but still tracking yet another man who seemed to be gunning for Shea. How many were after her? Abdul-Mutaal for sure. The Frenchmen. Now some guy with a gun on a motorcycle? The scary thing was they all now knew it wasn’t Finn riding with Eric.
Poor Shea crouched beside him, her eyes wide and her teeth clamped over her bottom lip. She’d let Aishling down and where the cat had gone, Eric didn’t know. He had Shea on his mind. The poor thing wasn’t cut out to be an undercover operative, not shaking like she was. He’d always known she was high-strung, but she seemed close to coming undone.
She’d dropped the helmet to the ground, letting loose her sweaty hair. He couldn’t tear his eyes off her. Where had all her chocolate brown tangles gone? He used to love getting lost in the delicious scent of the coconut and vanilla shampoo she’d used. The feel of all that cool silk, like ribbons, spiraling off her head. Reduced to a boyish cut, not even a good handful remained. His heart hurt seeing her like this.
The throbbing pulse at the hollow of her neck revealed her fear, and like it or not, the instinct to protect her spiked Eric’s gut with a vengeance.
His gaze strayed to that slender neck and all its ticklish spots. He knew where to breathe hard to make her shiver. Where to nibble to get a moan out of her. Before.
Without warning, she ducked into him, trembling like a deer caught in a trap. Her head sank below his chin like it used to do. Her hands slid beneath his open jacket. Over his ribs.
Eric (In the Company of Snipers Book 15) Page 11
