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walking away from the wrecker, waving at Fred over her shoulder, and heading back toward the bar entrance. Fred had his wrecker in gear, the Honda in tow, and was inching toward a barely visible back alley at the rear of the parking lot. The remaining bikers had gotten off their motorcycles and were standing near the black pickup, having a conversation with the people inside. The truck’s windows were darkly tinted, but he could make out two heads and possibly a third. Still, they weren’t shouting and they didn’t appear to be having a confrontation. No other traffic rolled by the bar, and the street was quiet.
    Deciding he was acting overly paranoid, he turned around and reentered the bar. As he opened the door, the ear-splitting rock and roll blasting from the band’s amplifiers hit him like a physical blow. Deafened by the music, he let the door slam behind him, and moved back behind the bar to have a word with Jack, to see how much whiskey Whip and the Dark Riders had cost him. He also had to let Jack know he was leaving shortly to take Dace home.
    He had high hopes her hospitality would extend to an offer of breakfast and coffee—and maybe a sleepover, without the sleeping—not necessarily in that order. They had gotten a taste of each other in Fred’s wrecker, and he wasn’t averse to a second helping. He hoped she felt the same way. This woman had affected him, and while his dating skills were rusted to the ground, he was going to do his best to get them back in working order.
    Pronto.
    His bartender tapped him on the shoulder. Jack moved his fingers in the universal “yak-yak-yak” motion, indicating he wanted to talk to Tate. Pointing to his ear, Tate shook his head, and gestured toward the stockroom, where the door would block out some of the noise once they closed it.
    He looked up, just as Dace came hurtling through the heavy front door, slamming it against the wall.
    “A man’s been shot. Call 911. Now!”
    She twisted around and ran out.
    Fuck.
    Fuck!
    Never ignore the feeling.

Chapter Seven
    A few moments earlier, Dace was on her way back to the bar. After she waved goodbye to Fred, she decided to give a wide birth to the group of bikers still standing by the black pickup. As she passed the black truck, the once-quiet conversation became a loud one.
    Dace heard angry shouting and a stream of furious-sounding Spanish invectives, ending with the word “ pendejo ”. Two sharp cracks ripped through the air, and she knew instinctively the noises were gunshots. She dropped to the ground as the men standing near the truck scattered, some diving for cover and some reaching for their own weapons, tucked in their waistbands, to return fire.
    The black pickup’s engine revved into a scream as the truck lurched into motion, bouncing over the curb, and screeched into a sliding turn as it swerved out of the lot, rear tires sliding and leaving long dark strips of melted rubber behind on the asphalt. The barking retort of the gun shots still echoed in the dark night.
    One man was lying motionless on the ground, half on his side, with his left arm arched over his head. There was a spreading pool of dark liquid under the body; even in the dim light Dace knew it was blood. She recognized the biker as one of Whip’s crew.
    Acting on instinct, she ran to the downed man’s side. The other bikers in the lot had already fired up their machines and were beginning to pour out of the lot, presumably to wreak their vengeance on the occupants in the pickup truck. In the blink of an eye, the street was empty except for the fading roar of accelerating motorcycles, leaving Dace standing alone over a gunshot victim bleeding out on the asphalt.
    Dace spared a glance at Fred’s orange wrecker; he was out of the lot, his revolving yellow lights barely visible in a narrow back entrance alleyway she hadn’t noticed before. Her Honda still hung from the wrecker’s hook, and she sent up a quick prayer to the automotive gods that