Page 74 of Cruel Games

He shrugged. “How different can it be from a quad bike?”

Probably greater than the difference between a two-wheel pushbike and a tricycle. I was about to suggest making a run for it when two rough-looking guys in shell suits emerged from around the corner.

“That’s her!” one of them pointed in my direction.

“Shit!” I slammed the helmet on my head and jumped on the back of the motorcycle. “Go, go, go!”

Kendrick turned the ignition and started the engine. The cycle rumbled to life, and I clamped my arms around his waist and twisted in the seat. One of the shell-suited thugs raced toward us, and the other shouted something into a mobile phone.

Nausea churned in my gut. He was probably calling the others.

In the periphery of my vision, Crawford pulled himself to his hands and knees.

I squeezed Kendrick tight around the middle. “Go now.”

“Hold on.” He released the kickstand, changed gears, and released the clutch.

“Oi, Craw,” yelled one of the thugs. “Get off your fat arse and grab the little bitch!”

As Crawford staggered to his feet, Kendrick revved up the engine, and the bike crawled down the road.

I gave Kendrick a shake. “Go fast—”

“Got you!” Someone grabbed the hood of my coat, yanking me backward.

A scream tore from my lips as my body jerked away from Kendrick. I scrambled out of the garment, leaving it behind as Kendrick picked up speed.

“Fuck!” shouted the thug, who had tried to snatch me by the hood.

Gripping Kendrick even tighter around the waist, I turned to find Crawford gaping at us from the gateway in wide-mouthed shock. Then his features twisted into a rictus of rage, and he broke out into a run.

“That’s my fucking bike!” he snarled.

“Lilah?” Kendrick shouted. “Are you alright?”

I slapped him hard on the arm. “Go!”

With a roar, the motorcycle surged forward and accelerated down the road, leaving behind Crawford and the others.

My stomach lurched, and I rested my head on Kendrick’s shoulder, breathing hard. Tremors shook my arms and legs, but I ignored them, hoping that this was the end of my troubles.

Kendrick turned into George Square, which overlooked the front of the City Chambers, the University of Strathclyde, and Queen’s Street Station. Colored Christmas lights and spotlights from the grand buildings illuminated the vast space, which was a combination of lawn and paved areas. Pedestrians milled about the far end, browsing what looked like a Christmas market.

Someone behind us honked a horn.

In the rear-view mirror, a black BMW raced toward us. Its number plate read 5AMMY 99. Panic exploded across my chest, drenching me with cold sweat.

“M-mount the square!” I shouted into Kendrick’s ear.

“What?”

“They’re following us.”

He accelerated the motorcycle onto the pedestrian square. People ducked out of our way, and a man screamed and pointed over our shoulder. I didn’t need to look in the rear-view mirror to know that Sammy had also mounted the square.

My heart beat in time with the revving engine, and I sent a silent prayer to whoever was listening for an escape route. If Sammy caught a glimpse of Kendrick’s face—I shut down that thought. We had to get out.

“Find an alleyway,” I shouted into Kendrick’s ear.