Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(51)

But the bus driver didn't move. He glanced at the tavern, and then at Rider.

"Okay, fine," Rider said, handing half the money back to the young woman before him. "Get on the bus, tell your driver to gun the motor, and if it doesn't turn over you can just pay me for taking the time to look at it."

She nodded and left the tray by his feet, and quickly fled back up the bus steps.

"Satisfied?" he grumbled to the driver. "So would you go try the engine?" Old people got on his nerves, especially tourists!

But before the driver could get up the steps, gunshots rang out. Rider turned and stared at the tavern. He heard several bike engines engage; voices escalate; glass break; grunts and snaps; more rounds fired. Shouts became frenzied yells, then turned into bloodcurdling screams. Voices of men carried on the night air and made him freeze where he stood, paralyzed as a hundred emotions slammed into him at once. Shit! Crazy Pete, or maybe Razor, had lost his cool. Maybe it was the bartender, but it wasn't a shotgun blast, it was a revolver. Snake was wild, but he wasn't out of his mind and Bull's Eye didn't make a move without Snake's okay. There was only one option. Run.

He snatched his guitar and headed toward his bike. He was not doing time if the fellas had held up the bar. He was not going to be locked in a cage because one of them had tripped out and had killed an old man for some change or a free bottle for the road. Hell no, he wasn't going to rely on some old bus passengers to vouch for his honor—they'd swear it was a set-up. They'd tell the authorities he'd kept them occupied while his boys robbed the joint. He'd be an accessory to sure murder; the robbery was secondary. They'd give them all the chair.



She pressed her hands to the bus window. "Oh, my God! What's happening? We have to get to a phone and call the police!"

"Calm yourself, child," Mrs. Parker said, eating the remains of her apple slowly. "They were animals, anyway."

"What?" Tara looked around the bus at the placid faces that stared at her. "There's an innocent bartender in there! I heard gunshots, a man being murdered! Didn't you hear that?"

"Oh, it's not murder, honey," an elderly man said with a smile. "It's just an old place getting a little life back into it, is all. That's why we came, and they had so much vitality. It's the everlasting cycle of life." He nodded toward the tavern, and then glanced at the other passengers. "They'll be pleased. We did good this time."

"You think tonight will be the night they'll fulfill the promise?" Mrs. Parker asked, excitement brimming in her eyes.

"Fifteen strong, young males," the bus driver said with a smile as he entered the bus and came up the aisle. "Plus a girl? Yes. I think that would be enough to convince them we're ready."

New terror slammed into Tara as she looked at the insane expressions around her. Her heart almost seized when the bus driver reached for her. Brandishing the glass pitcher, a scream filled her lungs, then rent the air, and she swung it madly with her eyes closed tight. She could feel strong arms grasp her waist. Madness entered her ears above her screams as she left the bus floor kicking, yelling, clawing, fighting, but still moving forward and down a flight of steps. The old people were saying not to fight it, give in and be thankful that this was happening while her body was still young. Tears blinded her, choking her, drowning her cries. Her grandmother's visions were coming true. The nightmares she'd lived with all her life were coming true. She looked up and saw a man with a guitar on his bike, stomping his pedal.

"Don't leave me!" she shrieked, sobs wracking her body as she continued to fight. "Oh, God, they're crazy, don't let them take me inside! Man with a good heart, please, for the love of God, don't leave me!"





CHAPTER 2


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A young woman's screams cut into his consciousness. Rider turned his head and glanced over his shoulder. His motor was running, the sound of it almost deafening. But what he saw was surreal, happened instantaneously and in slow motion at the same time. Crazy Pete's body was hurled out a window, shattering glass, landing almost at his feet. Rider looked down. Pete's jugular was ripped open. His body was still twitching. Blood spurted and turned the ground at Rider's feet muddy brown. He looked up and saw the girl over the bus driver's shoulder. Her hands were reaching toward him. Tears were streaming down her face. The bus driver was taking her into the middle of hell.

His guitar hit the ground. A .357 Dirty Harry was somehow in his hand. His arm was outstretched, and it trembled as he clenched the Magnum. He was going to jail, and wasn't even sure why. The center of the bus driver's skull had a bull's-eye on it, dead aim.

Blood and death and the stench of terror filled his nose and clung to the back of his throat, leaving a metallic taste as he swallowed thickly. Rider hocked and spat, but kept his gaze fastened on the man carrying the woman. The bus driver looked up. Their eyes met. Rider said nothing as he fired the first shot at the bus driver's feet. He stopped walking and smiled. The girl was still struggling. Old folks began coming off the bus.

His heart was racing; his ears were ringing. They were eyewitnesses who would remember things wrong. They were witnesses who were feeble, would not understand, and wouldn't give good testimony. Sweat was stinging his eyes.

The old people were shouting confusing things. One of them yelled, "Leave her. We have more than enough." What the hell did that mean? Put her down! his mind screamed, but his voice was lodged in his throat. Crazy Pete had freaking bled to death at his feet. Where was Snake! Another old bastard told the bus driver, "Don't be foolish. If he kills you, you'll miss the promise. She's so skinny, she won't yield much, anyway."