Tailing is a skill—a skill Tomas understood. He was better at tailing than he was at anything else. Luckily, he knew El Paso. He spent a couple of years here in his teens with his drunk bitch of a mother before he left the whore and drove to Houston, never looking back. So he knew parallel streets and places to duck into. He followed like a ghost, through the city and down into a residential area. By this time the pack was broken completely up, the trike was all alone. He was tempted to take the old man now. Just pull him over, and force him into the truck of his car at gunpoint.
He had nearly convinced himself to do this when two bikes came in off of a side street and fell in with the trike. The moment was gone. Not to worry, though—it wasn't really a missed opportunity, just a thought. A passing thought.
More bikes fell in with the small group. The pack was reforming. There were thirty of them in the group with the trike when they pulled into an apartment complex. Not liking the looks of that, Tomas pulled to the side of the road, blending in with the other parked cars. As luck would have it, the group stopped where he could see them.
The men got off their rides and began taking up positions of defense. Tomas watched and recognized the tactic for what it was. They were getting ready to bring someone out of an apartment. They were getting ready to be hit, hard. Guns began appearing in hands.
Could he have been wrong? Was Chelsea really here? No, no, Chelsea is not here, just stick with the trike and keep cool, he told himself. This is the decoy, and he had to admit, it was a very convincing decoy.
Minutes passed. No one made a move for any of the apartments. Riders continued to come into the complex parking lot, in twos and threes. After another ten minutes passed, most, if not all, of the White Wolves were accounted for in that lot.
Then, after another five incredibly long minutes, a short, black limo came slowly down the street, and then turned into the parking lot. The limo pulled up, and the bikers went on high alert. Six of them left the main body heading straight for an apartment door.
The doors of the limo opened and two large men got out. One was riding shotgun, the other riding in the back. The driver remained where he was.
As the six men going to the door reached it, six bikes started up and pulled out of the parking lot, fanning out, and heading back into the city. He watched them go, while keeping an eye on the six at the door. "This is too convincing," he murmured.
The door opened, and a redhead was there. She looked out at the bikers and then allowed the six men to come inside.
Two more engines started up, and Tomas' eyes shifted in that direction. These riders came out of the lot, but then parked on each side of the entry drive, with the men on them scanning the road. Tomas slid down his seat so as not to be seen.
The six who left before had to be some kind of outrider guard—group of riders to come in from behind an assaulting group. These two, the ones on each side of the entrance, were first defense and warning men. They would probably fire at anything that twitched suspiciously, warning the others that trouble had arrived.
Sure enough, both men remained on their bikes but pulled out their guns, checked them, and continued to scan the neighborhood.
Tomas waited, refocusing his attention on the apartment door. After another long minute or so, the door opened, and two men came out, guns drawn and looking for trouble. Once they were convinced that no trouble existed, one of them motioned with his hand and a smaller person came out of the door, followed by the other four men. The smaller person was in a black heavy jacket, baseball cap, and sunglasses. It was only when she got to the limo and turned back to the apartment to wave that he saw the blond pony-tail.
"Well fuck me," Tomas said.
The woman—Chelsea—got into the back of the limo, and one of the men followed her inside. Another got into the shotgun seat. The doors closed. Riders ran for their bikes. Engines started up. The limo began backing up. Pairs and trios of bikes pulled out of the lot, driving past the slow moving limo, and fanning out into the city.
Then the trike was one of them.
"Shit!" Tomas growled.
Chelsea was in the limo, but the trike was leaving ahead of her. He couldn't stay with both. He had to decide. The trike pulled out of the lot with two other riders, and headed toward the main drag. There was a freeway on-ramp in that direction. He had to decide. Limo, or trike.
"Fuck me running!"
His gut screamed at him that Chelsea was not, could not, would not be in El Paso. She was hundreds of miles West of here, and if he didn't follow that damn fucking trike now, he was going to lose them!
He started the Nova, then hesitated. The trike turned the corner, and went out of sight. The limo reached the street, its blinker indicating that it was turning in the other direction, with bikes in front and back. Another group broke off and gunned down the road past Tomas, taking a third option out of the area.
Tomas made his decision, and pressed the gas petal, bringing the Nova out of his spot, and took off after the trike, while screaming in his head that this had better be right.