“What the f**k is going on?” Tuck asked. “I’m getting real sick of this.” He shifted in his seat and pulled the pistol from the small of his back. He laid the automatic weapon on his lap, out of sight of anyone outside the vehicle, then rolled down his window and motioned to the nearest biker toward his side of the road. The biker shook his head.
Tuck shook his own head and lifted the pistol. Careful to keep one hand on the wheel, he aimed the pistol at the man beside him, tilted his head and eased the car off the road. They slowed to a stop. The rest of the bikers zoomed on past them, except for Iceman Slick and Jersey, who stayed right with them. And the guy Tuck aimed pistol at. He eased off the side of the road with them. He seemed smart enough to realize that even if he gunned it, a
