Free Bitter Legacy: A Matt Royal Mystery (Matt Royal Mysteries) by H. Terrell Griffin Page A

that’d be a good idea.” I turned and walked off, Logan following.
    We went through the door to the stairwell. Logan chuckled. “I love it when you get on your legal high horse. You always sound like an ass.”
    “I know. I’ll make sure Bill Lester smoothes any ruffled feathers and gets that young deputy off the hot seat.”
    We got to the bottom of the stairs and I hit the push bar on the door, moving fast. As advertised, an alarm sounded, echoing up the stairwell. We got into my Explorer and headed for the exit nearest the Dumpster. I didn’t think the bikers would be able to see us leave. I was mistaken.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
    I drove I-75 north, exiting onto Fruitville Road. Traffic was light and I was doing a steady forty-five miles per hour, I was vaguely aware that there was a motorcycle behind me, but I didn’t think much of it. I caught a green light at Cattlemen Road and as I approached Honore Avenue, three more bikers fell in behind me. I was in the middle lane, getting a little nervous.
    “Logan, there are four bikers behind us. It might be some of the same bunch who were at the hotel.”
    “I doubt it. I think we gave them the slip.”
    The two lead bikes accelerated. One moved over into the right lane and the other into the left lane. They had me bracketed. I could see both in my side mirrors. The one coming up on my left was holding something down beside his leg. As he moved up even with my left rear tire, he got into my blind spot. I looked over my left shoulder. The rider was holding a shotgun, moving it up into a firing position. I reacted instantly, jerking the wheel to the left, sideswiping the bike. I heard the sound of gunfire as I swung the wheel abruptly back to the right. I heard more metal grinding into the Explorer as it collided with the other biker. Another shot. I could see the bikers down in the road, skidding along on the pavement with their motorcycles. I didn’t think they’d be alive when they stopped.
    I slammed hard on the brakes, thinking I’d get rear-ended by the two remaining bikes. That didn’t happen. They peeled off, roaring around me at high speed, concentrating on escape. If they had weapons, they didn’t show them.
    A very small moment had passed since I swung the wheel to the left. Logan was beginning to react. “What the hell?” he said.
    “Are you hit?” I asked.
    “No. Was that a gunshot?”
    “Twelve gauge, I think.”
    Logan had spotted the wreckage in the road, cars slamming on breaks, trying to dodge the carnage. The bikes had stopped their skids. The riders were still, blood seeping out of torn jeans and jackets. I brought the Explorer to a stop in the middle of the road. Traffic was still moving in the eastbound lanes, but our lanes were at a standstill.
    I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, dialed 911. “This is Matt Royal,” I said to the emergency operator. “Some bikers just tried to kill me on Fruitville Road at Honore. In front of the Comcast studios. You’d better send ambulances and cops.”
    “Sir, where are you calling from?”
    “I think two of the bikers are dead.”
    “Sir, I need your name and a phone number where I can reach you.”
    “I’ll wait here for the cops.”
    “Sir, calm down and talk to me. Do you see any blood? Who are the victims? What is your phone number?”
    I hung up. “Friggin’ bureaucrats,” I muttered.
    “Matt, what the hell just happened?”
    “I don’t know, but those guys were going to shoot us.”
    We sat quietly. People were out of their cars, milling around, telling each other what they had seen. A sheriff’s department cruiser came around the corner of Honore, siren blaring, light bars flashing frantically. He stopped on the shoulder, went to the bikers lying on the street, felt for a pulse, spoke into his radio. He saw the shotguns lying on the road a few feet from the wrecked bikes. He went over, peered at them, but didn’t pick them up. He was a good cop. Leave it for the crime-scene