One Eye Open. Karen Whiddon

      Biker gang? No way. Not Alex. Like her, he’d gone to college, gotten a good job. He worked in marketing, with a large Long Island firm.

      “You must be mistaken,” she said, her certainty showing in the flatness of her normally melodic voice. “Alex doesn’t even own a motorcycle.”

      “Then why did you call him The Wolf? And why were you looking for him in a biker bar?”

      She frowned. “The Wolf has been his nickname ever since third grade. And I heard he’d been to that bar, that’s all.”

      With a quick motion, he peeled off his right glove, keeping his left hand on the wheel. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a much-folded sheet of paper and handed it to her.

      Though grainy, the black-and-white photo in the center of the page was unmistakable. Alex.

      Quickly she scanned the text. An FBI datasheet, the paper went on to describe how a biker gang, Hades’ Claws, had committed numerous crimes, including several drug-related murders up and down the East Coast. Her brother was believed to be one of its high-ranking members and was wanted for questioning.

      Feeling numb, she handed the paper back to Carson.

      Accepting it, he kept his bleak stare on the darkened road ahead.

      “Time to share again,” he said. “Since you know why I’m looking for The Wolf, now you can tell me who shot at us.”

      She raised a brow. “Why do you think I would have that information?”

      “You obviously were forewarned. You knew when to hit the ground.”

      “I heard the gun cock.”

      “Right,” he said. “Who was the shooter?”

      “I really don’t know.” She shrugged, careful to keep her expression neutral, while her head spun and her heart ached. Was the datasheet right? Was her brother hiding because he’d turned to crime? Or, as her premonitions suggested, was he in real danger?

      “Damn.” Carson went still, focusing on the rearview mirror.

      Glancing over her shoulder, she saw headlights approaching fast on the otherwise deserted road.

      “Are they—”

      “Hold on.” His low-voiced order was terse. He accelerated. The Tahoe leaped forward. The speedometer crept past eighty, then eighty-five. Ninety. The cab began to vibrate. She hoped that the road would remain straight and flat; at this speed, the slightest curve might send them into a skidding rollover.

      Checking to make sure her seat belt was securely fastened, Brenna glanced over her shoulder. If they were going over ninety, the other vehicle had to be traveling in excess of one hundred, for it still seemed to be steadily gaining on them.

      “I can’t kill the headlights.” Carson swore again.

      A green highway sign loomed ahead. Wicket Hollow—One Mile.

      “I’m gonna take it,” he said. Still, he kept his foot on the accelerator, his hands locked in place on the steering wheel.

      “Not at this speed. If we crash—”

      “We won’t.”

      Oddly enough, his calm certainty appeased her. She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing herself to relax her death grip on the door handle.

      She told herself not to be afraid. Yet one thing kept running through her mind. If they crashed and she was mortally injured, she would be unable to keep from changing. She would have to drag herself away from the crash scene and die in her natural state far from human eyes. This was the law of her people. To do otherwise would risk bringing discovery and possible ruin upon them all.

      Closing her eyes, Brenna began to plan. Just in case.

      “There’s the exit.”

      At his words, she opened her eyes. “Too fast,” she snapped, as they blasted past the sign and left the highway.

      “Seventy-five.” Satisfaction sounded in Carson’s voice. “One curve, then, straight shot.”

      She sat up. They were on the access road. Trees blocked the highway from view.

      “Are they gone?”

      “Not yet.” Violence still sounded in his voice. “There.” Pointing to a dirt road that wound into the trees, he killed the headlights and slowed. Pulling into a thicket, he parked.

      Then they waited, the sound of their mingled breathing harsh and loud in the quiet interior.

      A moment later a vehicle sped past, too quickly in the darkness for Brenna to make out its type.

      “Hummer,” Carson said, as if he’d read her mind. “Dark colored—black, brown or blue. Whoever they are, they’ve got money.”

      Swallowing, she nodded. Still her heart pounded in her chest. She willed it to slow.

      “We need to go,” she said.

      “In a minute.” Leaning against his door, Carson spread his arm comfortably along the back of the seat. “Why don’t you start talking? Are these the same people who shot at us?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Enough lies.” His tone lined with steel, he sat up and dropped his arm.

      When she only stared silently at him, he swore again, his mouth twisting. With a savage flick of his wrist, he started the ignition. Once out of their hiding place, he pulled back onto the highway, continuing north.

      Brenna watched the speedometer climb to eighty again, unable to resist a quick glance behind them at the now-deserted highway.

      “No headlights.” Carson confirmed. “Tell me the truth. Are you working with them?”

      “Working with—” She shook her head. “Of course not. I don’t believe in random violence.”

      He regarded her strangely. “Your brother does.”

      “My brother’s in trouble,” she muttered. “I don’t know how or why, but he is.”

      His short bark of laughter contained no humor. “In trouble? Of course he is. Besides having the DEA, ATF and FBI after him, he has to worry about rival gangs. It’s only a matter of time until one of us finds him. I wouldn’t want to be in your brother’s shoes right now.”

      There was something in his voice. Pain. Bitterness. Rage.

      “It’s more than that with you,” she said, keeping her eyes on his shadowed profile.

      At that his head snapped up, his gaze icy again. “What do you mean?”

      “You’re too angry. With you, it’s personal.”

      She thought he might deny it, even as the fury that momentarily darkened his eyes betrayed him. But after a moment of chilly silence, he gave her a cold smile and nodded.

      “My wife and daughter are dead because of Hades’ Claws.” He might have been discussing the weather, so remote was his voice. “They thought they’d killed me, too.”

      His unspoken anguish sliced through her, sharper than any knife. “Were you shot?”

      “In the back. I nearly died. Now I want the ones who killed my family.”

      She swallowed. “Surely you don’t think Alex was part of that.”

      “Yeah, actually, I do.”

      She couldn’t believe it. There were a hundred reasons why Alex couldn’t be the killer he sought, but she couldn’t give him any of them.

      “Now.” With one hand on the steering wheel, he grasped her chin with the other. “I want the truth. Are those goons who shot at us and chased us Hades’ Claws?”