18I saw them in my rearview mirror, a hundred yards behind me.
Two men on motorcycles, faces hidden by visors as black as the clouds looming in front of me.
No blue lights, no sirens. They weren’t cops.
These bikers were completely covered in black leather jackets and pants, a sight as menacing as the Nazi patrols that had terrorized Denmark during the Occupation. Their demeanor wasn’t watchful like the Bandidos who’d tailed me home after the funeral. Each rider in this pair was leaning forward eagerly, like a hunter closing in.
I hunched down in my seat to make myself a smaller target. The speedometer read eighty kilometers per hour, the top recommended speed for this back road.
One bike crossed the center line to the left lane. The other stayed behind me.
I jammed the accelerator t
