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As Shea cruised through the parking lot, one of the prospects charged out of the building and tried to block her way. “Where the hell you going with my bike?”
She swerved around him and pinned the throttle down the hill toward the perimeter fence. The Harley felt sluggish compared to her Iron Goddess bikes.
A Thunderman armed with an AR-15 stood next to the closed gate, talking on his cellphone. He stepped into the middle of the driveway and raised the rifle. “Stop the bike!”
She considered running the gate, but it was too risky on a bike. Frustrated, Shea screeched to a halt inches from the guard, her mind racing.
The guard walked alongside the bike, lowered his rifle, and shined a flashlight in Shea’s face. “What the hell you doing?”
“Wendy OD’d. I gotta get her to the hospital.
