Read Online Exiled (Anathema Book 2) by Lana Grayson - Free Book Online Page B

blood. I’d be damned if I acted out any more of my father’s
perversions.
    I
didn’t slow. The reflected light in my mirrors might have been the moon, the
two remaining bikes, or Anathema’s scarred demon breaking through my memories
and aiming for my jugular. I wasn’t taking chances.
    A
twenty-four hour mini-mart was the first sign of civilized society. I didn’t pause
at the stop. We blew past the intersection without an echo of Temple’s bikes.
For the moment, we were alone.
    Martini
relaxed her hold, but her body pressed hard against me. Her relieved sigh
didn’t chase away her trembling. She patted my back.
    “Not
enough alcohol in my flasks for this,” she said. “You should buy me a real
drink if you plan any more shootouts.”
    She
thought she was cute.
    She
was right.
    I turned
at an intersection between a darkened shoe-store and Goodwill, but red and blue
flashes of pure aggravation lit the street. I swallowed my curse. Unless they
were slipped enough money to plug their ears, the cops probably heard the
gunshots outside town. Now they watched the lone biker blasting through the one
stoplight town.
    Discriminatory
bastards.
    Martini
twisted behind me. “Uh-oh.”
    I
gunned the bike before the cop realized he was in pursuit of a man who couldn’t
afford a reckless driving charge. Not when I was supposed to be dead. Last
thing I needed was Anathema, Temple, or the motherfucking Coup—the bastards who
split from Anathema in a bloody war—realizing I still breathed.
    I
cut through a side street and waited. The cruiser missed the turn and pressed
forward, racing the wrong way. Martini swore. Two bikers chased the police, one
splitting at the intersection to the right, the other chasing my invisible
specter to the left. The first patters of rain struck the pavement.
    “Son
of a bitch.” I shoved Martini’s grip away from my throbbing shoulder and cast
the bike down a second street. The roads narrowed away from the artificial
glare of the used car lot and beer distributor. Thin houses with metal awnings
and busted gutters lined the streets. I snuck into an alley and third road
without stopping, searching only for the threat of headlights or the shrill
warning of a siren.
    The
headlight came first.
    My
bike rumbled as I pushed through shadow and streetlight. I cut around an untrimmed
yard and blitzed behind an elementary school. The first shots ricocheted off
the road and through the siding of a decrepit split-entry. Martini’s scream
laced the air, crying my name as a third and fourth echoed far too close.
    I
broke out onto a two-lane highway dissecting the town. The Temple fucker
followed, but his control waned. The road washed with the debris from a clogged
storm sewer. The bike spun out, and he dropped hard against the cement.
    Just
in time for the flash of police lights to crest the hill behind him.
    “Jesus
Christ.” I swore and pushed the throttle again. My bike surged forward, dipping
into shadows. The cop leapt from his vehicle, gun drawn.
    I
had no idea which men went down and which one remained. It wouldn’t make a
difference. A man didn’t earn a Temple rocker without bloodshed.
    The
main drag promised another highway entrance. I buzzed past the closed shops and
broken street lights without looking behind me. Martini shouted to turn as the
last bike lunged out of the darkness of a side alley.
    A
bullet fired, crossing over my shoulder and shattering the one storefront with
enough merchandise sitting in its window to warrant a security system. Flashing
lights and shrieking alarms revealed our positions to anyone with half a brain.
It didn’t stop the gunfire.
    We
had no other options. The Temple biker had the jump on me. He fired a shot too
close for comfort, too close to the unprotected woman holding my back. I juked
the bike.
    Martini
squealed as the front wheel locked and the brakes skidded over rough roads. The
bike tilted and crashed. Hard. My injured shoulder bit the ground first,