A breathing mask.
“Oh my God,” Ava whispered.
The biker was not protecting himself.
He was protecting her.
“Unit Seven,” dispatch crackled, “state condition of child.”
“Unknown,” Nolan said. “She’s on oxygen. We need medical ready.”
The Harley surged toward the next intersection.
That was when everything went wrong.
A semi-truck slammed its brakes on the flooded road ahead. Its trailer swung sideways with a horrible metallic scream, jackknifing across the street like a wall of steel. Cars scattered. Headlights spun. Water exploded under tires.
The biker had nowhere to go.
Ava screamed, “Nolan!”
The Harley leaned sharply toward the only opening left, a narrow gap between the sliding trailer and a concrete barrier.
Too small.
Too deadly.
Impossible.
For one heartbeat, Nolan saw the little girl lift her face.
Her oxygen mask fogged with one weak breath.
The biker lowered his head over her like a shield and twisted the throttle.
The engine roared.
The Harley shot through the gap.
Metal shrieked inches from the rider’s shoulder. Sparks burst from the barrier. The rear tire clipped a wave of water and fishtailed violently. Nolan’s cruiser skidded to a stop behind the jackknifed truck.
Ava slammed both hands against the dashboard.
“No!”
But the Harley appeared on the other side.
Still moving.
Still upright.
Still carrying the child.
Nolan threw the cruiser into reverse, found a side opening, and forced the car around the wreckage.
“Dispatch, we need all units to clear route eastbound toward Peoria Children’s Medical,” Nolan said.
Ava turned to him. “You think he’s going to the hospital?”
“I don’t think,” Nolan said. “I know.”
Because the biker had stopped riding like a fugitive.
He was riding like a father with death breathing over his shoulder.
Two blocks later, the Harley cut across the hospital access road.
But instead of stopping at the emergency entrance, the biker roared past it.
“What is he doing?” Ava asked.
Nolan’s stomach twisted. “That’s not the ER.”
The motorcycle sped toward the older west wing of the hospital, a wing closed for renovation.
No ambulances.
No doctors waiting outside.
No open entrance.
Only a dark service road behind the building.
Ava stared. “Why would he go there?”
Nolan didn’t answer.
The Harley skidded to a stop beside a locked service door. The biker jumped off, almost slipping in the rain, and gathered the little girl into his arms. She hung against him, fragile and pale, the breathing mask pressed to her face.
Nolan and Ava burst from the cruiser with weapons lowered but ready.
“Police!” Nolan shouted. “Stop!”
The biker turned.
For the first time, Nolan saw his face clearly.
Not hard.
Not criminal.
Terrified.