Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103719 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 415(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Autumn blew a kiss and exited. A moment later…
Out in the corridor, the cheer of John’s nearest and dearest was so loud, so happy, it rattled the door in its jamb and echoed throughout the training center. But that was family for you, wasn’t it. When tragedy struck, they were the first to be by your side.
And when a miracle came in for a landing?
Your relief and joy were their own.
“Thank you,” she said to the medical staff as the ancient chanting of the warriors started up, the male voices strident and powerful, like they were vanquishing death from the training center. “You saved his life.”
Manny looked at his patient. Then the human smiled in a lopsided way and spoke up over the victory din. “We played a part. But he stayed alive… for you.”
* * *
After Daniel left the underground lab, he ended up outside at the mansion’s garages. Opening the pedestrian door, he entered the interior and immediately noticed the warmth in the air. But of course C.P. Phalen wouldn’t want her cars to get a chill.
Not that he was here for her rides.
Walking down the front grilles of her matched set of Mercedes sedans and then her baker’s dozen of SUVs, he passed by her Aventador and stopped in front of his only possession that was worth anything. The Harley was a custom Street Glide, not that he’d been the one with the bright ideas about modifying the bike. He’d bought the motorcycle off a buddy of his.
Just before the guy had taken a bullet to the head and died on a job.
Trolling his fingertips across the handlebars, down the gas tank, and over the quilted black seat, he could hear the sound of the engine in his head. The growl was loud, sure, but not the kind of loud that Harleys were known for, not the kind that sucked your hearing out of your ear canals or rattled the windows of houses as you passed. That was the reason he’d liked the bike—because it had all the speed and handling, and none of the obnoxious, attention-getting stuff.
He’d never worn a helmet. Not a bad call, as it turned out.
Concussive trauma was not what killed him.
Going to kill him.
Whatever.
Returning to the handlebars, he locked a grip on both sides and took a deep breath. Swinging a leg over the seat went… as badly as he’d thought it might. He was uncoordinated, unbalanced, and weak. But when the seat hit his ass—or the other way around, as it were—he felt an unfamiliar feeling in the center of his chest.
And gee whiz, it wasn’t heart failure.
He felt… like he’d accomplished something. There was just so much damned failure lately, even though the cancer was out of his control.
Moving his hands down to the tank, he felt the cool metal under his mostly numb palms, pointed both his toes so that the balls of his feet were on the concrete under the tires, took another deep breath… and swore to himself that he could smell the gas and the oil.
Where the hell was the key? he wondered.
Six months ago, he’d had it as he’d driven the bike in here and parked it facing out—as he’d fully expected to keep taking the Harley out for a spin now and then. Now it was November, and all he had was the memory of turning off the engine, dismounting, and walking over to close the door. At the time, he’d had no clue that it was his last ride, but life was like that, wasn’t it.
You didn’t always know something was over at the time.
Where the hell had he put the key?
In the pocket of his baggy pants, he felt his phone vibrate as someone called him. He let the rhythmic pulses go, leaving the thing where it was. No doubt it was Lydia wondering where he was. He should go back to the clinic—
“Will you take me for a ride?”
At the sound of her voice, he was momentarily confused and looked down at his hips, like the cell had spontaneously answered and put her on speaker. But then he looked up to the door he’d just come through. She was standing there in between the jambs, her feet planted like she was prepared to argue with him.
Her tone was gentle, however. So was her expression.
“I’m sorry I was a shithead,” he murmured as he glanced back down at the bike. “Walking off like that. And if I could, I would like to take you for a ride.”
“You will. Maybe not today, but soon.”
“I don’t know where the key is.”
“We’ll find it.” As she came over, her trail shoes made no sound on the concrete. “It’s probably in the closet. Or somewhere.”
He made some kind of noise in the back of his throat because he didn’t know what to say—and then he wasn’t thinking about words as she faced him and lifted a leg over the tank.