Free Dark Light by Randy Wayne White

that all four of his eyes were focused behind her.
    She swung around and finally saw him: a dark, shadowy figure moving out of a doorway. He came purposefully toward her. Elvis growled again and whipped around to stare at another doorway on the opposite side of the street. A second man moved out of another vestibule and glided toward her car.
    They were close enough now that she could make out the black leather jackets, leather chaps, and the black motorcycle helmets worn by both men. The visors of the helmets were pulled down, obscuring their features.
    Night Riders. There had been a flurry of reports about the gang in the mainstream press lately. The police had started special patrols in certain neighborhoods, but not this one. There had been no trouble here.
    Obviously, the situation had changed.
    She weighed her options. She would never make it to the safety of her car. Retreating back to her apartment building was equally impossible. That left only one alternative.
    â€œHang on,” she said to Elvis.
    Clutching her purse, she ran for the door of the Green Gate Tavern. Her high-heeled pumps skittered treacherously on the pavement, but she made it to the sidewalk.
    The Riders had not anticipated her choice of destination, but they changed course quickly. Both of them broke into a run. The ominous thuds of their boots echoed in the fog.
    Elvis clung fiercely to her shoulder, teeth bared. She sensed that if they were cornered, he would try to attack the Riders. That was the last thing she wanted. He would be no match for the two men or the mag-rez guns they were no doubt carrying. Theoretically, it was illegal for anyone but a duly authorized member of a law enforcement agency to carry a mag-rez, but that had done little to keep them out of the hands of criminals.
    One of the men partially raised his helmet.
    â€œGet her,” he shouted to his companion.
    The other one needed no urging. They moved in on her from two directions. She vaguely realized that no shots had been fired. That was probably a good sign. Evidently they didn’t intend to shoot her dead in the street.
    But what did they want? According to what she had read, purse snatching wasn’t the gang’s style. They were into more sophisticated businesses: extortion and drugs.
    She was only a few feet away from the front door of the Green Gate when the heel of her left shoe snapped, throwing her violently to the side. She went down hard on the wet pavement. Her coat protected her from a bad case of road rash, but she knew she would have bruises in the morning. Elvis leaped from her shoulder.
    She stared at the door of the Green Gate, willing it to open.
    â€œHelp.” What she had intended as a full-throated shout for assistance came out as a weak yelp.
    Adrenaline got her back on her feet in an instant. Miraculously, her glasses were still on her nose. She staggered on the broken heel and almost went down a second time.
    The nearest Rider closed in fast. His associate was not far behind.
    â€œDamn bitch,” the first Rider growled. He reached for her with a black-gloved hand. “I’m gonna show you what happens to women who give me trouble.”
    She was aware of a flash of movement at the corner of her eye. Then she saw Elvis. He dashed up the Rider’s leather-clad pant leg, white cape flying. She realized that he was heading for the only portion of the Rider’s body that was not encased in leather: the small, vulnerable area at his throat.
    An instant later the Rider screamed in pain and astonishment. He shoved up his visor and scrambled back, batting wildly at his neck.
    â€œSomething bit me,” he yelped. “Get it off me. Shit, I’m bleeding .”
    The other Rider paused. “What in green hell?”
    Sierra half staggered, half ran for the Green Gate. “ Elvis . Come here. Hurry.”
    He was already on his way back down the Rider’s pant leg. He reached the pavement, deftly avoiding a kick