Race Against Time

She kissed him quickly, trying to imprint the feel of his soft cheek against her lips, then tucked him beneath the brush and ran. She was sprinting toward the highway when they saw her and gave chase.

“Help me, God,” she muttered and kept running.

The night air was cooler now, the sand was in her shoes and her blouse was sticking to her bloody back. Her footsteps were jarring as she ran, adding to the thunder of her heartbeat.

All of a sudden one car sped past her and then swerved, blocking her path. The other car came up behind her, skidded to a stop, and the driver, Ian Bojalian, took her down within seconds.

Star screamed.

“Where’s the kid? Where’s your son?” he yelled.

She was already crying now, as she pointed back to the fire.

“He’s dead! You killed him! You killed him!” she cried.

She never saw the fist coming, but when he hit her, she dropped like a rock.

Dev Bosky, the driver who was now missing a windshield, frowned.

“Baba is not going to be happy about this.”

“He told us to stop them. It’s her fault for taking him away,” Ian said, then gagged her and tied her up before tossing her into the trunk. “I’m going back to Vegas. You make sure nothing that would tie you to this scene blew out of your car. Without a windshield, there’s no telling what shit you strung about out here.”

“Someone is going to see this fire any second. I don’t want to still be out here,” Dev growled.

“Then make it snappy,” Ian said from the front seat as he slammed his door and steered the car toward the highway. The moment his tires hit the pavement, he gassed it and disappeared.

Dev Bosky jumped in his car and put the headlights on bright, intent on making a quick sweep through the area for any evidence he might have left. He was on the back side of the fire and a good distance away when he saw a single light come into view out on the highway, heading toward Las Vegas.

“Damn it all to hell. A biker. If you wanna keep living, man, you better keep riding.”

* * *

Quinn O’Meara was southbound on her Harley, heading toward Las Vegas on Highway 93, when she saw fire in the sky. At first she thought it was fireworks, but the flames weren’t burning out; they were growing bigger. She sped up, topping the slight rise shortly afterward, and realized the flames came from something burning out in the desert.

The sight made her skin crawl, and the closer she came to it, the larger the fire appeared. It was on the northbound side, which was opposite to the way she was going, but her conscience wouldn’t let her ride on without investigation.

She crossed the median and then the northbound lanes and rode out into the desert, only to realize it was a car that was burning. Horrified, she braked quickly and left her bike idling as she hung her helmet on the handlebars and jumped off.

She was walking toward the fire when the silhouette of a toddler moved between her and the flames.

“Oh, my God,” she said and started running.

The baby was stumbling and falling and far too close to the fire. She ran up behind him, scooping him up in her arms. He was dirty and crying, but he didn’t look injured in any way. When she picked him up, he surprised her by putting his arms around her neck and hiding his face against the front of her jacket.

“Oh, sweetheart! If only you could talk,” Quinn said, as she looked again toward the burning fire.

The car had rolled. That much was evident because the roof was crunched inward and flames were shooting straight up through the top. It took her a few moments to figure out they were streaming through what must have been the sunroof. Then she saw what looked like two bodies inside the car and groaned. The baby must have been thrown out as the car rolled. He could have internal injuries.

She started to take out her cell phone to call 911 and then saw headlights farther out in the desert coming toward the fire. She moved away from the fire for a better view, unaware that she’d just given a killer a clear view of her and the baby in her arms. One of the headlights was flickering in the distance while the other stayed steady. Help was coming. But her relief was short-lived when she heard a series of pops and saw the dirt flying up near her feet.

Shots? Were those gunshots?

Oh God, oh God, what had she walked up on?

She unzipped her jacket and stuffed the baby into it, his belly against her breasts as she zipped him back in. Within seconds she had her helmet on and was heading toward the highway as fast as she could ride. She was almost to the pavement when something hit her in the shoulder so hard she almost lost her grip. The ensuing pain was sharp and burning.

She’d been shot! The nightmare kept getting worse! There was only one way to save both of their lives. She had to outrun the gunman. He was about a hundred yards behind her when she accelerated, crossing the median again and back onto the southbound lanes toward Vegas, riding without caution, desperate to stay far enough ahead to make shooting futile.

The baby was still now. She could smell the dust in his hair and feel the sweat of his little body. Her chin beneath the helmet was only inches away from his head when it occurred to her that the bullet might have gone through her into him. Now she had even more reason to get to Las Vegas fast.

When the highway flattened out into a straightaway, she could see the same shaky headlights behind her, but he had not gained any ground. The farther she rode, the heavier the traffic had become. She was closer to safety, but her shoulder was on fire and she was getting weak.

The car was closer now as she rode into Las Vegas. She saw the shaky headlight in her rearview mirror more often, but he hadn’t gotten close enough to hurt her again. At the first stoplight she came to, she yanked out her phone and searched the address of the closest police station, then synced the directions to the mic in her helmet and followed them straight to the address.

There was a No Parking sign in front of the station, but she couldn’t go any farther, and she needed to make it inside before the gunman caught up to them. Her legs were shaking as she got off the bike, hung her helmet and checked on the baby. He’d slipped farther down inside her jacket, but she could feel him breathing. He was asleep, though it seemed crazy to her that he could rest after such an accident. He was probably in shock. After one quick glance over her shoulder she ran inside, requesting to speak to someone in Homicide.

The officer up front led her to a separate area where three detectives were working. One was on the phone and two were doing paperwork. They all looked up at the same time, but Nick Saldano was the first to move as he hung up the phone. He was already taking her measure as he started toward the tall, dusty redhead. She was dressed in leather biker gear, and she looked strung out and—from a quick glance at her round stomach—pregnant. But she blew his first read all to hell when she put one hand under her belly and began unzipping her jacket with the other.

“Help me,” she said.

All three saw the baby and the blood at the same time and bolted, running toward her as she began to fall.

Nick caught her and the baby before they hit the floor.

“Daniels, get the kid. Murphy, call 911.”

He had her jacket off and was checking for an entrance wound when she moaned and opened her eyes.

“Tried to kill me,” she whispered.

“Who tried to kill you!” Nick asked.

She grabbed his wrist so hard her nails dug into the skin.

“Help me.”

“We’ve got you, ma’am. You’re at the police station. What’s your name?”

“The baby?”

“Your baby’s okay,” Nick said.

“Not my baby,” she mumbled and passed out again.

“Daniels! Check for any kind of identification on the baby. She said he wasn’t hers,” Nick said, as he went through the pockets of the jacket they’d taken off of her. They were empty.

“I wanted this to be an easy end to this shift, but no. It’s nearly midnight and the Fourth of July. Who was I kidding?” Daniels muttered.