James Patterson - Lifeguard

He crossed the wide emerald green fairway, the Ducati picking up speed, every golfer standing agog. I yelled, “Champ, are you crazy, man?”

Suddenly we slipped through another hedge and were in the middle of someone’s backyard. There was a beautiful pool, a cabana, and a startled woman in a bathing suit reading on a chaise longue.

“Sorry,” Geoff said, waving as we weaved by, “wrong turn. Carry on.”

The gal immediately reached for a cell phone. I knew that in about two minutes the Hummer was going to be the least of our worries. The Palm Beach police would be on our tail. Whatever element of slapstick comedy this scene had was fading into full-fledged panic, fast – very fast.

We ducked through another opening in a hedge and emerged on South County. “All clear,” Geoff said with a wink. No way the Hummer could follow us.

Problem was, the island of Palm Beach is parallel to an inlet, and if you happened to be running from certain death, there are only a few ways off. We headed toward the South Bridge. I figured we were safe now, unless someone radioed the bridge. We passed a few mansions. Dennis Stratton’s house, too. I was starting to exhale.

Then I glanced behind.

Oh, man !

The Hummer was back on our tail. And so was a black Mercedes. Only this time it was worse. Way worse . A projectile zipped by my ear with this piercing whine. Then another.

The bastards were shooting at us .

I clutched Champ tightly by the waist. “ Geoff, hit it !”

“Aheadaya, mate!”

The Ducati jerked, righted itself, then blasted forward into some kind of kited-up supergear.

We shot by more big-time mansions, the wind and the salt from the ocean breeze lashing at my eyes. I saw the speedometer hit ninety, a hundred, a hundred ten…one twenty. We both tucked our bodies as far forward as we could. Face to the metal, ass in the air. We put some distance between us and the two cars.

Finally we approached the end of a brief straightaway. Trump’s place, Mar-a-Lago, was on our right. We rounded a steep curve, and then…

The South Bridge was in sight .

I took a last look behind. The Hummer was about a hundred yards back. We were going to be okay.

Then I felt the Ducati go into a giant downshift. I heard Geoff yell, “Oh, shit!”

I looked forward and I couldn’t believe it.

A Boston Whaler was putt-putting its way up the Intercoastal. My heart was going putt-putt, too – only really fast.

The bridge was going up .

THE BRIDGE BELL was clanging. The guardrail was already going down. A line of cars and gardeners’ trucks was starting to back up.

The Hummer was coming up behind us.

We had seconds to decide what to do.

Geoff slowed, falling in at the end of a line of cars. The Hummer slowed as well, seeing that we were squeezed in – caught.

We could do a 180 and try to get past them, but they had guns. Maybe we could zip around the circle and head farther south, past Sloan’s Curve, but there was no way off the island until past Lake Worth, miles.

“Okay,” I yelled over the sputtering bike. “I’m taking ideas here, Geoff.”

But he had already made up his mind. “Hold on,” he said, staring ahead, gassing the engine hard. “ Tight !”

My eyes widened as I saw what he had in mind. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Sorry, buddy” – he glanced behind one more time – “this one’s new even for me…”

He jerked the Ducati out of line and gunned the huge bike forward, right under the guardrail. My stomach started to crawl up toward my throat. The bridge was opening now. First a couple of feet, then five, ten.

The bike started to climb up the slowly rising platform. “Stay bloody low !” Geoff yelled.

We zoomed up the ramp with the engine blasting, the g-force slamming my ribs. I had no idea how much space separated us from the other side of the bridge. I was tucked into a crouch, and I was praying.

We lifted off the edge of the road and into the air at about a sixty-degree angle. I don’t know how long we stayed airborne. I kept my face pressed to Geoff’s back, expecting to feel some out-of-control, spinning panic, then free fall, and finally the crash that would separate my body into parts.

But all there was, was this amazing sensation. How a bird must feel – soaring, gliding, weightless. No sound. Then Champ’s voice, whooping: “We’re going to make it!”

I opened my eyes just in time to see the tip of the oncoming bridge coming toward us, and we cleared it, our front wheel perfectly elevated. We careened off the pavement, my stomach lurching. I expected to fly off and braced for the crash, but Geoff held the landing.

We bounced a few more times, then he sort of touched the brakes and the bike glided down the platform. We’d made it ! I couldn’t believe it.

“How’s that!” Geoff hooted, coasting to a stop in front of a backup of cars on the other side of the bridge. We were in front of a woman in a minivan, her eyes as large as dinner plates. “Eight-five on the dismount, maybe, but I’d say the landing was a perfect ten…” Geoff turned around and gave me a shit-eating grin. “Sweet! Next time, think I’d like to give that one a try at night.”

ACROSS THE STREET from Ta-boó, the man in the tan car had watched the whole scene unfold, and he didn’t like one thing about it.

The first Mercedes pulled up, the doors flung open, and one of Stratton’s men dragged Liz Stratton into the backseat.

He squinted into the camera. Click, click .

Then Stratton’s boys in the Hummer peeled out after Ned Kelly and that Kiwi cowboy on the show-off bike.

“Dangerous folks,” he muttered to himself, clicking off one more shot. That son of a bitch better be able to really ride.

Then two of Stratton’s goons got out of their car and went up to Ellie Shurtleff.

For a second, that made him reach for his gun. Didn’t know if he should interfere. Some kind of argument took place. They started to get a little rough with her. The Shurtleff gal flashed her badge, standing up pretty tall in the saddle.

She had spunk, the man in the car had to admit. He’d give her that.

Setting up this scheme to get to Liz Stratton. Cavorting with a murder suspect.

“Spunk,” he chuckled, but not exactly a lot of shrewdness. All he’d have to do was pass along a print to the feds across the street and it wouldn’t exactly be a gold star for her career. Or the rest of her life, for that matter.

Stratton’s men backed off. Flashing the badge seemed to work, because after some jostling, they got back in their car. They drove the Mercedes close to the other car, then sped away. He took his hand off his gun. He was glad he’d decided to wait. This could get even bigger.

Maybe he should just pass along these prints. The guy was a wanted killer. She was taking a hell of a risk. What if she was involved in some way herself?

He watched the FBI gal get back in her car and drive away. “Not shrewd,” he said to himself again, tucking away his camera. He flicked a matchbook between his fingers.

But a shitload of spunk.

ABOUT 3:30 that afternoon, Ellie met us back at Champ’s garage.

I was happy to see that she was okay and gave her a hug. I could tell by the way she held on to me, she’d been worried about me, too. We told her about the motorcycle chase.

“You’re crazy.” Ellie shook her head at Geoff.

“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug, as if reflecting on it. “I’ve often found the line between crazy and physically irresponsible to be quite blurred. Anyway, I thought it was a far cry better than having to party up with those guys in the Hummer. Given the circumstances, I actually thought things went pretty well.”