Free Summer Session by Merry Jones Page B

pedaled right behind her, moving at her pace. Maybe she knew him? Harper turned, looked directly at his face and saw a ski mask. A ski mask? In this heat?
    Harper smelled smoke, heard warning shots, spun around and hurried ahead, her left leg unsteady. No mistake: the guy was following her. Who was he? What did he want? Was he a robber, a rapist? Damn. Breaking into a run, Harper thought of the gun in Graham’s book bag. Could she unzip the bag and pull it out in time? Maybe she’d be better off sticking her strong leg out, knocking the bike over as it neared. Or rushing him, shoving him off balance. Before she could decide, the bike caught up to her; the rider’s arm jutted out and grabbed the strap of Graham’s book bag, knocking Harper off her feet, dragging her.
    Reflexively, Harper bent her arm, locking the bag against her body, not letting go. The rider had underestimated her strength; his bike jammed, bucking, and he half fell, half jumped off, his face hidden under his woolen mask. He was taller than Harper, more muscular, and he wrestled for the bag, shoving her against the railing, pummeling her head. Harper fought back, ducking his punches, kneeing him in the groin, pounding his gut even as he landed several neat jabs to the sides of her skull. She kept fighting as pain and light flashed in her head, and the tunnel vision of war took over, focusing her completely on the battle, blocking out all else. Except, oddly, for the smell of peppermint. Peppermint? Her attacker was sucking a breath mint? She dodged a fist and grabbed his arm, scratching deep under the sleeve, tearing skin off, drawing blood. Harper hung on to the bag with a death grip, trained never to separate from her gear.
    But the guy would not stop. His arms closed around her waist and, while she punched and kicked, he lifted her, hefting her until her waist was level with the spikes of the bridge railing, the gorge gaping hungrily below. She grabbed for the spikes as a handhold, felt them dig into her belly, and her mind grappled with the news that her feet were no longer in contact with the bridge, that she was dangling in air. That her life was in the hands of a masked, peppermint-scented mountain biker who was wordlessly about to heave her off the bridge.
    Harper opened her mouth to yell for help but swallowed air, making no sound. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but swim frantically through air and grab hold of the railing, letting go of Graham’s book bag and her big leather sack. Of everything but her life.
    As soon as she released the book bag, the rider dropped her and snatched it up, speeding away on the bike, leaving Harper on her knees in the middle of the bridge, dazed, bruised and indignant.
    Slowly, cautiously, Harper got to her feet and took inventory, assessing the damage. Skin had been scraped off her knuckles, her head had been throttled, and her cheek bled where she’d been punched. She’d landed on knees and elbows when the guy had released her, and the jolt of impact reverberated through her bad leg. She felt off balance, dizzy with vertigo. Wiping a trickle of blood off her face, she decided her injuries were minor and stumbled back toward the campus side of the now-deserted bridge.
    Explosives flashed in her peripheral vision, and she heard blasts of gunfire. Keep going, she told herself. Do not have another flashback. She was still alive, hadn’t been dropped into the gorge. Her head throbbed, but she wasn’t tottering off her feet. Even now, she had reasons, however feeble, to be thankful.
    Clinging to the guard rail, dragging her leather bag, she moved cautiously, painfully, to the end of the bridge. Finally on solid ground, she took refuge under a cluster of trees, eyes closed, catching her breath, regaining her equilibrium. When she felt steadier, she looked around.
    Not ten feet away along a wooded path, among a clump of weeds, was Graham’s book bag.
    Why would someone be willing to kill her for the