She couldn't ask Aaron. If she did, he'd figure out her plan to get shooting lessons from Malcom on the side.
Petty let out a sigh. Then another. And one more for good measure.
Great. Her coach, already kind of a walking ice cube, had just gotten even colder.
She gripped the steering wheel, turning onto the main road and leaving the city’s beltway behind. It was already the fifteenth day of the last lunar month, and the streets were crowded with migrant workers heading home for the holidays, most of them packed onto motorcycles. Petty eased up on the gas, careful not to spook anyone.
The sounds of horns and engine rumbles came and went, echoing from every direction. Her car stereo hummed with calming music, trying to cut through the chaos.
Then, through the steady din, a set of sharper, harsher engine roars broke out. They didn't sound anything like the other bikes. It was more like someone was being chased.
Her first thought was just some young guys racing for fun.
She checked the rearview mirror. Harley-Davidsons wove through the crowds of other motorcycles, easy to spot. She felt a weird sense of unease, but Aaron’s car tailing hers made her feel a little safer.
Apparently, Aaron was getting the same bad feeling. With three bodyguards riding with him, Aaron told his driver to keep close to Petty.
His car lurched forward, picking up speed. But as soon as they sped up, all the surrounding motorcycles seemed to get louder, boxing them in. The migrant workers’ bikes clustered tight around Aaron’s car, like metal pulled to a magnet. In an instant, he was trapped.
Aaron caught the glare of cold, hostile eyes under the helmets. Whatever these people were, they weren’t workers heading home.
This was bad.
Suddenly, the whole group swarmed around Aaron’s car, blocking the view ahead so completely he couldn’t see past the press of bodies and bikes. Meanwhile, those Harleys that had slipped between the others had shot forward, closing in on Petty’s car.

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