Free I Hear Voices by Gail Koger Page B

stood and fired.
    Peg Leg’s head snapped back and he toppled over with a nice bullet hole between his eyes.
    “I told you, your man would protect you,”
    Granny crowed.
    “You did.” Derek was downright lethal and determined to get that gold. He needed me to find it, and he would protect me until we found the mother lode. After that, I wasn’t quite sure what he would do. Probably dump me in the middle of the road and drive off.
    The roar of a motorcycle engine brought my head around. A red Harley shot of the smoke and skidded to a stop next to me.
    One look at the rider had me on my feet and backing away.
    The guy was huge with bulging biceps and a shitload of tattoos covering his massive chest. His black vest had Hells Angels’ death head patches on it.
    I had seen those tattoos before but where? My brain had done gone on holiday and damned if I could remember. I didn’t think he was one of Pirate John’s men but I couldn’t see Mister Muscles’ face through the tinted faceplate on his motorcycle helmet.
    “Get on,” he growled.
    Did he think I was stupid? “Look, if you don’t want to get shot by that big guy over there, you’ll leave. Right now. Shoo, go away.”
    “Shoo? Give me a fucking break.”
    The next thing I knew he had grabbed a fistful of my shirt and yanked me across his lap. “Hey! Let go of me.” I wriggled frantically against his iron grip.
    “Hang on,” he said and gunned it, expertly weaving his Harley around the abandoned vehicles.
    “Zelda,” Derek shouted.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him running towards me.
    “Help me,” I shrieked as my head missed the bumper of a Mercedes by a scant inch. “He’s gonna kill me!”
    The Black Hawk fired off a warning.
    The burst of bullets chewed up the pavement in front of us.
    Cursing, my kidnapper did a , shot behind a gasoline tanker and used the roiling smoke for cover as he sped away.
    Faster and faster cars whizzed by inches from my face. I clung to the bastard’s leg and screamed bloody murder.
    Granny appeared on the back of the motorcycle. “Don’t you know who he is?”
    “Haven’t a clue.” I cried and bit his leg. Hard.
    “Goddamnit Zelda, stop biting me,” Mister Muscles roared, zooming down the exit ramp.
    “It’s Dixon Deeter.”
    Oh shit! I had just bitten the leader of the Dirty Dozen. One of the most feared biker gangs in the known universe.
    My stomach roiled and my head felt like it was going to explode. I pinched Dixon’s leg and yelled over the roaring motor, “If you don’t want me hurling all over your boot, Dixon, you’ll let me up.
    Now!”
    Dixon skidded to a stop by a city park and jerked me upright.
    Too late. I hurled all over him and his motorcycle.
    He pulled off his helmet and threw it on the ground. “I don’t fucking believe it.”
    “I’ve got a head injury,” I wailed and promptly puked on his boots and the helmet.
    Deeter inquired in an extremely polite tone, “Done yet?”
    “Think so.”
    He grabbed me and yanked my t-shirt right off.
    “Hey! Give it back.”
    “When I’m finished.”
    I gaped in horror as he used my shirt to clean off his bike, his crotch and his boots.
    “Here ya go,” Dixon said, holding out my puke encrusted shirt.
    I backed away. “Ewww. You can keep it. All I want to know is why you’re doing this?”
    He rubbed a hand over his shaved head and shrugged. “You’re my property. I protect what’s mine.”
    I rolled my eyes. God, he kinda sounded like Derek. “About that… I know you made me an honorary member of the Dirty Dozen when I saved your daughter from that murderous pedophile but this is nuts. I’m not your property. You don’t owe me anything. Just leave me here. You have no idea what’s going on or what kind of trouble I’m in.”
    “You took a gold medallion from the Phoenix Art Museum. You’re hoping it will lead you to Montezuma’s gold. Sloan also wants the gold and knows he needs your psychic woo-woo shit to find it.