Protect by C. D. Breadner

of the bike directly in front of him. The rider
fought for balance, dropping his weapon as he tried to gain control
with both hands. He lost that fight, the bike sliding sideways
behind him, taking out the fellow next to him like bowling pins.
The bikes were still skidding.
    “Fuck!” Fritter was shouting, breaking hard
enough he felt the force nearly throw him over his handlebars. It would have if he hadn’t braced for it. His back end slid
right a bit, and he put a foot down to keep from dumping as he came
to a stop.
    There were more gunshots behind the van.
There was no way to know what the hell was going on. As Knuckles
pulled to a stop next to him they shared a look, dropped their
kickstands and dismounted in a fucking hurry.
    The van’s driver door was open. Knuckles
headed that way, pausing in front of the van where he had some
cover. He tried to see through the driver’s door window but the
vehicle was blocking everything.
    Knuckles was in front of the opposite head
light. With a wild whoop the crazy fucker was off, running along
the passenger side like a man with a death wish.
    “You fucking nut job,” Fritter muttered,
starting up the other side much quicker, shoving the door shut as
he went. He had his Glock pointed downward, sidestepping the whole
way to present a smaller target.
    The world was very sharp, very bright and
vibrant. His breathing and pulse were eerily regular, but he could
feel the sweat under his arms running down his ribs. The only sign
he was fucking terrified.
    He heard the footsteps a split second before
the shadowy form appeared at the ass end of the van. It took
surprisingly little time to realize it wasn’t anyone he recognized,
and calm as you please he brought his arms up and fired off a
single round that caught the guy in the arm holding a fucking Uzi.
The second shot, delivered a half second later, took off the side
of his head and he topped over.
    “Holy shit! Fritter, you okay?”
    He let his body sway against the van, back
flattening on the panel. He caught his breath, shooting arm hanging
down loosely. His free hand he clasped on his elbow, feeling the
warm wet that wasn’t sweat.
    He didn’t want to look. He fucking hated
bleeding.
    “Hey, hey, stay with us there buddy.”
    Fritter opened one eye with a chuckle. “I’m
alright,” he assured Tank, letting the big guy take the Glock from
him. “Is everyone whole?”
    “You bet. You’re the only one hurt.”
    “That’s hardly fair.”
    Tank chuckled, then he heard ripping, opening
both eyes this time. Tank had torn the sleeve off his flannel
shirt, and as Fritter watched he tied off his arm above a spot that
was really starting to fucking sting.
    “Thanks big guy,” he mumbled. “What do we do
now?”
    “They shot out two van tires,” Tank mumbled,
shoving the Glock down the front of Fritter’s pants. “Mickey’s
calling Jolene. Getting her to report the van stolen.”
    “Shit,” Fritter muttered. “What about the
dude?”
    Tank’s mouth set in a grim line as a gunshot
rang out, kind of behind Fritter but not quite. He jumped about two
feet, heart hammering and that sick feeling returning. “Shit,
really?”
    “Only way, man. Knuckles is using one of
their weapons, Sachetti won’t know the difference. It can look like
it was a stolen van, kidnapping, then this guy’s buddies came to
get him back. Works for law that way.”
    “Who were these guys?” he asked. “They were
on fucking crotch rockets. And they were shit riders.”
    Tank shook his head. “No idea. Not sticking
around to check IDs. We’re outta here. Five minutes ago.”
    Fritter nodded.
    “You okay to ride?”
    “Yeah. What about Mickey?”
    “He’ll have to ride bitch. That might draw
some attention but I want to get gone. No time to wait around.
You’re sure about this arm?”
    “I’m fine ,” he insisted, pushing away
from the van, pulling his shirt down over the Glock. “But you’re
right. We gotta go.”
    Tank nodded,