Getting the hell out of Washington, and doing it in style—all 849CCs worth—had seemed like the cure he’d needed. A cure that no doctor or pill could provide. It was the best way imaginable to put as many miles between him and the site of his injury as he could. So far, he’d put in a day’s worth, about seven hours between him and that hospital. Six hundred hot miles, most of them spent at speeds well beyond the legal limit. How else could it be done on such a beautiful piece of machinery? And with a group of Vets, no less. Natural thrill-junkies. Men who’d survived death for the very purpose of staring it down again, in their own country, and on their own terms. The terms today were two wheels and no roll-cage. And a fearless compulsion to ramp up the speed around each bend of tight, twisty scenic highway, over each crest of the rolling foothills as they delved deeper into the Appalachian mountains.

Although he seemed to have all the time in the world, he had none for bad memories or flashbacks. In the open air and under a cloudless blue sky, his thoughts settled on his destination. His future. The plans he’d set in motion.

He’d already started, with the doctor’s help, a short list of attainable goals. The first was to get off his anti-anxiety medication completely. He’d already weaned down to a fraction of a dose and took it only occasionally. Meditation was helping with that. The next goal was to reach out to old friends, and the new ones he’d made through everything, the people who helped him. And to thank them all.

He knew it sounded pretty sappy. It was just the sort of cheesy idea one would think up during a cross-country bike tour or through the sudden clarity of his dissipating depression. The shift inside Matthias grew with the crossing of each state line. A clarity of thought and vision, like the hundred-mile view down a flat stretch of interstate, where the distance blurred not into some mirage, but of . . . the bright red light directly in front of him.

It was the single brake light of his friend’s motorcycle. Like a growing swarm, more brake lights began flickering across the rears of his two-wheeled brethren.

Matthias checked his speed, falling in line with the new, slower pace. And then it became clear, the cause for everyone’s concern. An undercover police cruiser. It had been playing possum for half a mile, but now its true nature had revealed itself in a bright blue and red flickering.

Busted.

Fuck.

They had all been speeding, as usual, and they were about to overtake just another random car. But now there was a ripple of hesitation flowing through the group, some slowing, some even speeding up, everyone’s helmets rotating around to check on everyone else. They were brothers in the Army and on the road. A decision had to be made, and it had to be stuck with by all of them.

A thought occurred to him. How could a single cop car pull over twenty bikers? And then an even better question. How would it even catch them if they decided to make a run for it?

It seemed he wasn’t alone in asking no-brainers. Some of the riders were revving their engines now, others waving their hands and pointing down the road. Come on, let’s go! They communicated like this for a few seconds before their plan was set in motion, the unanimous decision coming in the form of popped wheelies and burnt rubber as the entire group of riders buzzed by the police car and notched up through the gears.

The speed of Matthias’ acceleration made the car look as if it were parked. And while the scenery rushed by, he checked his mirror to see the blue and red lights growing smaller and smaller until it was a speck of light. And then nothing. Just open road.

They regrouped about five miles later, Matthias laughing madly through his mask. And now, all of them clustering together and with their engines having cooled and quieted, he could hear other similar childish yelps and hollers. So childish. So stupid. And dangerous. But fuck it, it was fun.

It was living.

To celebrate their well-earned freedom, several of the guys started to get a little crazy. Show off time: standing on the backs of their bikes, lying on the side or straddling the front, all while traveling seventy mph. Even if Matthias hadn’t just recently been shot, he wasn’t about to try that. He’d been riding for years and was just happy enough to never have him or any part of his bike that wasn’t rubber or kickstand touch the ground.

After the frenzy and celebration of doing something illegal had subsided, they were back to their cruising ways. In formation, two-abreast, each rider on either side of the lane and in the rubber marks. It was some of the first bit of riding advice he’d ever received, to avoid the middle oily lane. He watched another guy practically stand while taking a corner. Some other good advice would have also been to avoid a bunch of crazy vets with death wishes. It might save him his life, or an epic driving record. Or even freedom. Group ride or not, evading the police, especially in Tennessee, would come with a stiff penalty.

Matthias forced himself to relax. He was there to relax, not build more anxiety. He sped up to the front of the group and pointed them toward an off-ramp. It was time to get on a different, smaller highway, before the cop could radio other units. Throw them off track a little bit. Maybe find a place for a lunch stop.

He watched in his mirror as the rest of the group followed his lead without deviation, the whole group in a tight uniform, like a soldier’s march, all of them taking the exit and then curving around a narrower, curvier highway. They were thick in the hills now, with hardly any visibility behind each curve. Something that might come in handy in case they got any more unwanted attention.

After a few more curves and a gas station that would be too obvious a place for a police check, Matthias had his bike armada pull into the parking lot of Betty’s Roadhouse, circling around the building to the rear lot. A nice, quiet, hidden parking spot. He parked his bike, pulled of his helmet, and smiled. The day couldn’t have gone any better. The location, Betty’s, was a throwback roadhouse serving up cold mugs of beer and hot entrees soon after. The boys finally got their chow time, the chatter quieting down as the work of refueling got serious. And it was the type of burger Matthias could get serious about. Blue cheese, avocado, and bacon. Something that could help him seriously forget about his diet.

And why not? He was on vacation.

“So how does it feel to get back on the road?” someone asked him.

“How’s day two treating you?”

“Knocking out the cobwebs yet?”

Matthias’ answer to all the questions was just a big grin. They knew what that meant.

But that grin quickly melted away. And then it was the opposite, a mouth hung open. A quiet gasp escaping out of it.

“What the fuck?” they asked.

“What’s up? What’s wrong?”

Matthias had been staring at the window when it happened, when a familiar-looking police cruiser pulled up into the driveway in a hurry, and then racing around to where he couldn’t see it, to the rear, to the bikes. And he felt the fear again, the hot waves of it washing over him. Motherfucking fuck . . .

“Relax,” they said to him. “We got this.”

“Yo, we’re good. Have a sip of beer.”

He finished the glass.

By now a few others had joined in the anxiety, asking if they should go out back. If they should talk to the officer. Maybe talk him out of it.

“No,” Matthias said, wiping the beer froth from his mouth, slowing his breathing down intentionally. “We’re here. We’re eating. Let him come to us.”

The wait was much longer than he’d anticipated. He also anticipated the arrival of backup cars, a string of flashing lights pulling into the roadhouse to assist in the mass arrest of what they’d probably call a biker gang. But while he and his boys downed their food and drinks—some even ordering seconds—and with his eyes peeled to the window, all was quiet. The backup cruisers never showed up. The scene was still quiet when some of his boys went back to order dessert, with not even a peep from the rear door. He kept staring at the door that opened onto the parking lot, waiting for that lone highway cop to finally come strolling in.

“Maybe he drove off?” said Willy, an old, white-haired Vietnam vet.

“Why would he do that?” said Matthias. “He knows we’re in here. He’s just playing with us.”

For Matthias, some of it was an act, the tight restraint of his emotions, of the fear, and trying to keep it out of his voice. Fake it ’til you make it.

Since the “encounter,” it seemed like any type of confrontation, or even the anticipation of such, would mark the beginning of a slight trembling of his hands. It was so embarrassing. And no matter how hard he tried hiding it, there was no stopping the shakes once they began. Doing so would only make him feel even tighter.

Matthias tried thinking back to his therapy. The breathing exercises. He tried imagining how the doctor would describe this as an opportunity. The more stressful situations he could encounter, and overcome, the faster he’d recover. He had to relearn and to rewire. And maybe today would be a big step in that direction.

But then the back door opened, casting a burning ray of sunlight over their table. Matthias felt almost blinded, flinching from the glare, and from what could be possibly be a highway patrol officer.

“Aw, shit.”

“Is that him?”

“Shh . . .”

Matthias stood up from his chair, asking on the way, “Can I help you, Officer?”

The visitor walked in, and to Matthias’ delight, it was no officer. Though he had a militarized look. Clean shaven with short hair, black tactical clothing, the man came clunking in on military boots.

“Yes, you can, Matty,” came the voice of Jackson, founder of DARC Ops.

There was an audible gasp at the table of bikers. And if Matthias was confused, they were even more bewildered. He was friends with a cop? Who the hell was he?

“Guys, chill, this is my friend, Jackson.”

“Are you a cop or something?” asked one of his buddies.

“Sort of,” said Jackson, chuckling. “I’m his boss.”

Some of his buddies laughed nervously while the others shrugged and then went back to eating.

“Then you should leave him alone,” said Willy. “He’s on vacation.”

He was actually on a leave of absence, “sick leave,” to be exact. Mental sickness to be even more exact. The time off, and this bike tour especially, were meant to give Matthias time and space to clear his head and to work through his demons. Jackson’s presence would only bring the opposite. Surely, he knew that.

So what the fuck was he doing there?

They talked about it outside, alone, but surrounded by a legion of parked bikes that sat glistening in the full afternoon sun. They were waiting, begging to be driven away from the possibility of work.

“That’s a nice rig,” said Jackson, admiring the sleek aerodynamics and racy red paint scheme of Matthias’ Ducati 848. “Real nice. But I’ll have to get you a new one.”

“What?”

“Well, a new old one.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“If you want to ride around without being followed, you’ll have to get something a lot lower tech. How do you think I found you?”

Matthias frowned. “You put a fucking tracking device on it?”

“No.”

“Jackson, this is supposed to be my vacation.”

“I didn’t need a tracking device,” said Jackson, tapping the bike’s speedometer. “I turned your bike into one.”

“How nice . . .”

Jackson was pointing to the new, fancy, technically superior bike. “That thing’s chock full of hackable, trackable computers.”

“You really couldn’t just leave me alone for a week, huh?”

“I’ve got something nice for you. She’s a beauty. Vintage. No electronics, just chrome pipes and guts. The way a bike should be.”

“The way a bike should be is fast. And that’s what this is.” Matthias ran his hand down the smooth, curvaceous side of his bike, caressing it like a lover, and protecting it from Jackson’s hurtful words.

“Sure, it’s fast,” said Jackson. “But the internet’s faster. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. And I’d love to know why.”

“Because I think I found the perfect assignment for you.”

“I’m already on it.” Matthias was inspecting some piece of gunk at the rear wheel well.

“Yeah, I know, I know. But you’ll still get to ride.”

“With my crew?”

“No,” said Jackson.

“Because we’re headed to Louisiana. The bike convention.”

“They are. You’ll be off to somewhere else.”

Matthias sighed.

“Atlanta,” said Jackson.

“I’m not going to Atlanta.”

“It’s super cushy. A real sleeper, trust me.”

Matthias stared at his face. “That hospital gig started out the same way.”

“I spoke to your doc.”

“Jesus Christ . . .”

“No, don’t worry, he didn’t say anything. I mean, uh, he says you’re doing great.”

Matthias looked at Jackson’s face again, imagining the spot where his fist would land. Maybe the mouth would be best place to start.

“He thinks it’ll be a great way to get back into action. Get back in the saddle.”

Matthias pointed to his bike. “I already am in the fucking saddle.”

“And you can stay on it. You can ride it to Atlanta. On your new bike.”

“And then can I drive it back to my new job?”

Jackson laughed.

“I’m serious. I want a new position. A promotion.”

“Yeah, I can give you a raise.”

“No, not just that.”

“You want a new title.”

Matthias shook his head. “It’s not that, either.”

“Well, can you tell me what the hell it is, so I can do it for you?”

Matthias stopped to think for a moment. It sounded too good, like Jackson had handed him a blank check. What was so terrible about this assignment that made him so generous?

“You sure it’s an easy one?” said Matthias.

“Yeah, it’s perfect for you.”

“Why do you want me in Atlanta so bad that you’re willing to give me a promotion?”

“Well, I’m stretched really thin.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“And it’s in Atlanta,” said Jackson.

“So? What’s so bad about Atlanta? The heat?”

“Hotlanna? No, I’ve got a good friend there. Kind of owe him a favor. You know him, too. Ernesto Tejada. FBI.”

Ernie . . . An old friend from Iraq. He came back home and got himself a proper job, not this nutty DARC Ops bullshit.

“Yeah,” Matthias said. “I know Ernie. Smart guy.”

“It would kill me if I couldn’t help him out.”

“With what?” asked Matthias.

“With you going there.”

“Doing what?”

“Helping him out,” Jackson said. “He’s investigating a computer company. I can tell you more about it on the way there. But it’s real simple. Micky Mouse.”

“What am I doing there?”

“Just talking to people,” said Jackson. “You won’t even need a gun.”

Matthias had to laugh at that one.

“I’d send my own mother,” Jackson said. “But she can’t deal with the humidity. Bad arthritis.”

“At least she doesn’t have PTSD.”

“Hey.” Jackson’s face tightened, the smiles and the good times disappearing. He looked almost hurt.

What was he so hurt about?

“You know,” Matthias said. “I can joke about it. It’s okay.”

Jackson was looking over the bike again.

“It even helps to joke about it.”

Jackson was nodding as he inspected the Ducati’s bug-covered windshield. And then he looked back up to Matthias and said, “So what do you think of Atlanta?”

Matthias laughed. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I still want that promotion, though.”

“You deserve it.” Jackson said. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“I don’t want a promotion just because I got shot up.”

Jackson shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. I mean you’ve done a lot. For me. For DARC Ops. You’ve been, like, the backbone here. You know?”

He knew. Though it was something he tried not to think about. It wasn’t good for the ego to dwell on how vital he was to Jackson’s organization. But it was true. He might not have been the flashiest of Jackson’s crew, or a savant like his Mira, or even the most intelligent. But he’d always prided himself on his hard-nosed, blue-collar work ethics. He’d always be the one to gut it out. And he’d have to keep that up if he wanted to help himself.

Jackson put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re, like, my guy. You know? I trust you.”

It would be the hardest thing he’d have to do in the last two months, walking back into the roadhouse and looking into the blank faces of his riders, and saying goodbye. Taking on Jackson’s assignment—or challenge—was no easy task, either. It meant that his vacation, and in some sense, his recovery, was over. Whether or not he was truly ready, he’d still have to see about.

But a challenge was what he needed, even if it would not be so challenging at all, according to Jackson’s well-worn promise. He remembered how things back at the hospital got quite challenging—and in a hurry. In an empty hallway that suddenly filled with up with gun smoke, that wet feeling all around him as he writhed on his back. The old tightness crept back in, clamping down on his chest.

“But it’s totally up to you,” Jackson said. “You feel ready for this, right?”

He was ready to have something good to remember, to not go out on a bad note. He looked around at all the empty bikes. Riding around with these guys was fun and all, and he loved them. But they were all retired from the action.

He wasn’t. Not yet.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m ready.”