Nowhere to Run
“He rolled to one side as the bike slammed into the wall—hard. It fell to the ground, a hunk of twisted, screaming metal. The engine whined, then coughed, then died.
Joe lay quiet, the breath knocked out of him. He stayed still and took in small gulps of air. Revived, he tried to push himself up, but a burning line of pain shot down his left arm. Broken, he figured.
The Chevy screeched to a stop less than a yard from Joe, the headlight beams blinding him. He stood on wobbly legs. Although injured and dazed, Joe was ready to confront the two men getting out of the car. He wiped the grit and crud of the garbage from his visor and looked around, trying to find anything to use as a weapon.
The two men were still a blur. The driver leaned across the hood of the Chevy, pointing something at Joe. Joe instantly recognized the glint of steel from a large pistol.
"Okay, Conway," came a gravelly voice. "Back up to the wall." Joe had no choice as he heard the hammer lock into firing position. He backed up.
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