Grady focused on the road. The heat from the day surged upward from the asphalt, bouncing lightly at the slight dips and bumps in the road, the dotted white line speeding past. Few cars took this road as it pretty much led to nowhere, but as soon as he turned onto the frontage road, more cars became visible, people heading home, either trying to get to the highway that lead directly into Oklahoma City, or staying on the frontage road to take any number of turnoffs into the city’s subdivisions. Eventually, he took another turn off onto a four-lane highway that would eventually take into Callie’s neighborhood. Her house was nestled in a relatively safe area of town, although even the nicer areas of Oklahoma City sometimes had their issues with crime. Car thefts, burglaries, even some drugs. Rich people cooked meth, too, and behind closed doors, who could really know what was going on?

It was dark by the time he turned onto Callie’s street. Damn it. She was already home, her car parked in the driveway. He slowed and pulled to the curb a few houses away, his heart racing, his palms sweating. He tried to laugh it off but failed. He was no teenager out on a date, so why the sudden rush of anxiety? What was he even doing? Did he want—

He frowned as a dark-colored SUV pulled up to the curb in front of Callie’s house. Lights off. What the hell? A tall, slim figure stepped out, gazed at her house for a moment, and then quickly took a step closer. His body was hidden behind the open car door, but he paused long enough to look down the street. The man stiffened when he saw Grady’s motorcycle idling by the curb, his headlight aimed right at him, but not long enough for Grady to make out any features. A flash of white skin from the man’s hands was all he saw before the man slid back into his vehicle, whipped a U-turn, and sped down the street, only then turning on his headlights.

Grady cursed, put his motorcycle into gear, and followed the SUV, zooming past Callie’s house. He caught a glimpse of a soft light in the kitchen window, another in the living room. Would she know he’d been there? Surely she recognized the sound of his bike by now. Would she think he’d stood her up? No, he couldn’t worry about that now. If this was her stalker—and who would pull up to her house with lights off, dressed all in black? He’d explain to her later. First, he needed to catch this guy, find out what the hell he was doing lurking in front of her house. It could’ve been nothing, but then again—Grady snorted—there was fuck all chance of that being a coincidence.

The SUV turned onto a wider street, pushing a yellow light just as it turned red. Grady started to slow, then changed his mind. He whipped his head left and right to make sure he had room to clear the intersection and then opened the throttle. The turn was tight enough that his knee nearly skimmed the ground. The engine strained to pick up speed as he straightened, his heart pounding with excitement now, the thrill of the chase. It didn’t matter if it was an enemy insurgent, a Joker, or a stalker—the chase triggered his body and his brain into high gear, hyper-alert, his focus intense and his heart pounding with the pursuit. He squinted against the wind rushing over his face, leaned low over the gas tank, every move precisely timed, so familiar with his bike he knew how far he could push, how fast he could go, how well the bike would respond to his commands at the twist of the wrist or the slight tilt of his body.

If traffic cameras were mounted at the intersection, it was pretty much guaranteed he’d be getting a ticket, but he didn’t give a shit about that now. The SUV had accelerated and was nearly a half mile ahead now, weaving behind sporadic traffic along the two-lane highway heading north, not erratically but definitely in a hurry.

His grip tightened on his handlebars as he instinctively pressed himself even lower over the gas tank, cutting the wind, although he wasn’t sure if it really did much good. Still, it made him feel like it helped the bike go faster. He pushed up the speed to just about sixty, a good twenty-five miles an hour over the speed limit. Nevertheless, the SUV was gradually pulling ahead, taking another sharp left turn, this time heading northwest. Who the hell was it? No way could Callie’s night visitor have been an innocent if he was working so hard to get away from Grady now, close on his tail.

He cursed and felt his temper rising. No! He couldn’t let that shit get the better of him right now. He felt his mind settled into the same eerie calm right before a mission. He had to catch the driver, find out what he was doing at Callie’s house, and then make sure the piece of crap could never do it again. Maybe he could settle this tonight, once and for all.

They sped along a deserted frontage road along the warehouse district, for shipping along the rail lines, interstate trucking, and airline cargo depositories. The clearly defined lanes of the asphalt highway disappeared, the striping fading out as the road morphed from excellent to crap condition. No one lived along this stretch of road just beyond the last warehouse.

Grady slowed just a bit to avoid numerous potholes that could have sent him flying. The SUV had also slowed down. It almost made him dizzy, constantly glancing between the vehicle’s red tail lights and the increasingly damaged asphalt road just in front of him. To his left lay buildings, most of them looming in the darkness, shielding the lights of the city beyond with a few security lights around. They stood dark, most of them protected behind twelve-foot-high chain-link fences topped with razor wire. To the right were mostly dark desert-like plains, very few houses scattered well in the distance, their lights like pinpricks in the darkness.

Suddenly, the SUV slowed still more and Grady made up some distance, maybe one hundred feet before he grew wary as the SUV swerved slightly, slowed more, and then, without warning, two quick flashes of light glinted from the left side of the vehicle. Seconds later came the sharp retort of a gun. Fuck! The bastard had shot at him!

He tightened his grip on the handlebars, trying to perform evasive maneuvers, but the condition of the road made it difficult. Damn it! He’d either have to risk gunning his engine and getting closer to the SUV and pulling his own gun, or slow down, trying all the while to get close enough to get the license plate number, or, the least favorable option, to break off the chase.

Grady already knew what he was going to do. He turned off his headlight and accelerated, steering carefully with his left hand while with his right he reached behind him and pulled his gun from his waistband. The guy in the SUV fired two more shots in quick succession, the vehicle swerving crazily, but the guy was either a very bad shot or his own bouncing vehicle had ruined his aim. Grady gripped the butt of his pistol tightly in his hand. His aim wouldn’t be perfect, either, but it didn’t hesitate. He pointed the gun at the back of the SUV and fired off three quick shots. Sparks erupted from the bullet ricocheting off metal from one obvious hit, glancing off the metal tailgate, and another of his bullets busted out the left rear tail light. He adjusted his aim. A little lower and he might hit a tire. He got off two more shots before the guy in the SUV suddenly slammed on the brakes and swerved left, stopping perpendicular in the middle of the road, the driver turning in his seat and arm extended, pointed his gun right at Grady.

Grady’s heart dropped to his stomach as he realized in a sickening second that he wouldn’t stop in time. Swerving wasn’t an option, sending him crashing to either side of the asphalt highway and making him far too easy a target. If he kept going, he’d T-bone the SUV. The bike rushed forward, and at the last moment he swerved, hoping to hell he’d gauged the distance correctly, enough to keep his tires on the side of the road.

He hadn’t.

Two more shots blasted away as his gaze met that of the man in the SUV, staring at him, a black ski mask covering much of his face. The barrel of the gun pointed at him again, and as he careened ever closer, everything seemingly happened in slow motion. He watched the man squeeze the trigger . . . nothing happened. The gun had jammed or he had run through his clip.

Grady almost laughed. Almost. His front tire hit the left front fender of the SUV, and the handlebars were roughly wrenched from his hands. He slammed to a stop and twisted. The next moment, he flew through the air, unable to discern which way was up and which was down until he landed hard on the asphalt on the other side of the SUV. His momentum kept him rolling, and then he bounced, hard. His heart in his throat, he smelled a mixture of oil-soaked asphalt and dirt as he instinctively lifted his arms in a desperate effort to protect his head.

Pain exploded through his body as he skidded and rolled down the edge of the asphalt and then down an embankment. He came to an abrupt stop on his stomach, his face in sagebrush, his body screaming in pain, his senses whirling, fighting blackness that threatened to pull him ever deeper into unconsciousness. He moved his right hand as he heard a car door slam . . . had to defend himself. Had to . . . fuck. He no longer held his gun.

“Shit,” he groaned, as unconsciousness carried him away.