Harper Allen - Payback

A single blinding headlight abruptly rounded the curve. Immediately emptying her mind of all else, Dawn focused on the swiftly approaching motorcycle. The biker, now that he had negotiated the turn and knew he had a straight run until the unmarked side road that led to his destination, wrenched back on the throttle to pour on more speed.

She struck the match she was holding and touched it to the chemical fire starter. Whoever he was, he was good. As the flames sprang up in front of him he reacted instantly, wrenching the Harley Sportster to one side with the obvious intention of going around the unexpected barrier. But as soon as the Harley’s tires hit the loose dirt it began fishtailing, despite the unknown rider’s efforts to keep it under control. “Dump it, buddy,” Dawn muttered under her breath. “You’re going to go down anyway, so you might as well choose your own moment.”

As if he’d heard her advice and reluctantly agreed with it, the Harley’s rider did just that. He’d long since eased off on the throttle and the rough terrain had further cut his speed, so the maneuver when he executed it was little more than a controlled stepping away from the falling bike. Jogging toward him, Dawn watched as he rolled like a paratrooper for a yard or so. He ended up on his hands and knees, shaking his helmeted head as if to clear it as she walked up behind him.

“But clearing your head is exactly what I can’t let you do, buddy,” she murmured regretfully as she stood over him. “I know I’ve already put you through the wringer pretty thoroughly, but…”

She slipped a stainless-steel cylinder from her back pocket as she spoke. As the biker began getting to his feet and pulling off his dark-visored helmet, she quickly twisted the cylinder into two parts. Reaching around him, she held the broken halves in front of his face.

The cylinder was one of Lab 33’s more benign gadgets. Although if it had been found in her luggage when she’d arrived it would have been dismissed by a searcher as a slightly oversize fountain pen, when the seal that kept it in one piece was broken it released a sickly sweet cloud of gas, similar in composition and effect to chloroform but much more predictable.

The hapless biker sank to his knees again, his helmet falling from his gloved hands. Taking care not to inhale the remnants of the gas, Dawn eased him to the ground.

“Believe me, buddy, if I could have worked this any other way in the time Aldrich gave me, I would have,” she told the unconscious man regretfully. “But you’ll come out of your little nap in a few hours. By then I’ll have returned your wheels and as far as you’re concerned, you’ll just have had a nasty spill that knocked you out for a—”

Instead of finishing her sentence, she inhaled sharply. Her mystery biker lay on his back, the moonlight shining full upon his face. Pitch-black hair brushed his forehead. His lashes were dense fans against his cheekbones. His breathing was regular and a faint smile softened his lips.

She felt a rueful answering smile tug at the corners of her mouth. On impulse she brought the tips of her fingers to her lips and kissed them.

“Wrong time, wrong place again, Lover Boy,” she whispered huskily as she blew her kiss toward him. “Maybe one of these days we’ll have a chance to get it right.”

Her smile disappeared as she checked her watch. Briskly turning away, she grabbed up the fallen helmet and hurried for the Harley without looking back.

“I owe you an apologetic cough, Rog, old chap,” Dawn muttered over the Harley’s rumble as she rode the heavy motorcycle into the dirt parking lot outside a long, low building. Peeling purple paint covered the rambling structure and its entry consisted of a spring-loaded wooden door with torn screening, but its slightly sinister air was dispelled by the glittering strings of Christmas lights that festooned it. “I figured your command of American-style English was a little shaky but it was spot-on, as you Limeys say. This here’s a juke joint, all right.”

She cut the bike’s engine and kicked its stand into position before using both hands to lift the full-face helmet off her head. She balanced it on the gas tank, shook her hair into some semblance of order and looked around her curiously.

The lot was full. Although there were some other motorcycles nearby, the majority of the haphazardly parked vehicles were cars, although not the usual run of modern sedans and SUVs. Pulled right up to the rambling wooden porch that ran the length of the dilapidated structure was an old black Buick. It had what looked like small chrome portholes along its sides, and the black metal visor protruding above its windshield must have been the last word in style some sixty or so years previously. A row over was a vintage truck, and beside it was—

“Oh my God,” Dawn breathed, her eyes widening as she dismounted the Harley and walked closer. “A ’55 Caddie ragtop. And she’s cherry…original paint job, whitewall tires that look like they’ve never had a speck of dirt on them, lemon-yellow leather interior. Elvis may have left the building, but I think I’ve found his car.” She tipped her head to one side as a blast of music started up from inside. A slow smile spread across her face. “And from the sounds of that wicked slide guitar, I think I’ve found his blues roots. Uncle Lee only played that old recording of RL Burnside’s ‘Snake Drive’ about a million times while I was growing up. He’d go nuts over this place.”

“He did.” Aldrich Peters moved out of the shadows and into the dim illumination of the lights. There was distaste on his aquiline features. One snowy-white shirt cuff brushed against the peeling porch railing, and he jerked his arm away as if he’d been burned. “What a dump,” he said in revulsion. “Your uncle used to say it was the only place west of the Mississippi that reminded him of the dives he frequented in that poverty-stricken backwater he grew up in. Since he couldn’t shake the Delta mud off his feet fast enough when he was given the chance to get out, I never understood the attraction.” He shrugged. “Still, when I realized how near it was to London’s lab I thought it would be a convenient contact location for us. Plus I learned that it’s off-limits to the lab personnel and guards.”

“Snake Drive” had ended. As Dawn walked slowly up the porch steps, she recognized the gritty growl of Reuben Glaser plunging into “Killer Blues,” another of Craig’s favorites, but this time recognition gave her no pleasure.

Too bad she couldn’t regenerate her memory as well as she could her body, she thought stonily. If that were possible, she would cut out all the sentimental recollections and replace them with ones that were less likely to keep tripping her up. She suddenly wished that Peters had chosen anyplace else—a deserted factory, even a graveyard, dammit—for this meeting.

But he hadn’t. He’d chosen this place, and if she knew him, he’d chosen it precisely because of its connection to Lee Craig. For some reason, he wanted her all misty-eyed and vulnerable, she thought with a cold inner smile. She could do that.

“I miss him, Doctor,” she said with a slight throb in her voice as she reached for the rusty handle of the screen door. She held it open, but Aldrich impatiently waved her through first. “Oh, I always knew we were in a risky profession and that every time he left on an assignment he might not return, but I guess I never really believed he could be beaten. I was in denial for a long time while I was AWOL from Lab 33.”

“Really?” Peters’s tone was suddenly silky. “So was I. But eventually we all have to face reality and deal with it, don’t we? Excuse me, waiter—could we be escorted to a table?”