Stories
Life Stories

They Trashed the Woman's Harley in the Lot — Then She Quietly Made One Phone Call

Chapter 7

Theme:
Font Size:
24px
The tall man and his crew knew she had found the depot. They knew she had the drive. They would immediately set up roadblocks along the primary highways—Highway 9 and the county route—to cut off any attempt she made to reach the regional federal building two counties away.Her house was compromised. Her truck was useless.She needed transport, and she needed a route that nobody would expect.Then, she remembered the Old Mill Tavern.Her damaged Harley was still sitting locked in the wooden shed behind the tavern, waiting for a flatbed tow truck that wasn't scheduled to arrive for another two hours.The bike was cracked, damaged, and leaking oil, but the engine was mechanically sound. If she could reach the tavern shed, repair the motorcycle enough to make it run, she could take the forgotten back trails—the dirt logging roads that wound through the ridge—and reach Claire’s office without ever setting foot on a public highway.Mara straightened her back, zipped the USB drive into her inner jacket pocket next to her heart, and turned south toward the Old Mill Tavern.By nine o'clock in the morning, the heavy rain had completely stopped, leaving behind a cold, gray air saturated with moisture.Mara approached the rear of the Old Mill Tavern from the thick woods bordering the lot. The tavern was quiet; business didn't start until noon, and the parking lot was completely empty except for a delivery truck unloading crates near the front entrance.The wooden storage shed where the bartender had agreed to lock her Harley sat near the edge of the forest.Mara crouched behind a stack of wooden pallets, observing the shed. There were no guards, no dark SUVs parked in the vicinity. The tall man and his crew were likely still combing the forest around the abandoned train depot, assuming she was still on foot in the mountains.She moved quickly across the open grass, pulled out the key the bartender had given her late last night, unlocked the heavy wooden padlock on the shed door, and slipped inside.The Harley sat in the dim light of the shed, looking battered and bruised.The left mirror was gone, the clear windshield was spider-webbed with cracks, and the fuel tank was coated in sticky, foul-smelling residue.Mara immediately went to work. She pulled a rag from a shelf, wiping down the fuel tank to ensure no chemicals reached the fuel line or engine intake. She retrieved a heavy roll of duct tape from a tool shelf on the wall and wrapped the cracked windshield tightly, stabilizing the fractured plastic so it wouldn't shatter under the force of the wind.She checked the saddlebag. The slashed leather was beyond repair, but she secured the remaining straps tightly with zip ties so nothing would drag against the rear tire.She swung her leg over the saddle, taking her seat on the hand-stitched leather.She turned the key in the ignition. The instrument lights flickered to life.Mara pulled the choke, rested her boot on the peg, and hit the starter button.The starter motor whined, turned twice, and choked on the cold air."Come on, Daniel," Mara whispered, resting her gloved hand gently against the fuel tank. "Come on."She hit the starter a second time.The heavy V-twin engine coughed, spat a plume of dark exhaust, and then burst into a deep, rhythmic, booming roar that shook the thin wooden walls of the shed.Mara smiled through her exhaustion. The machine was alive.She kicked open the double doors of the shed, pulled her helmet down over her head, snapped the visor shut, and dropped the Harley into gear.The heavy motorcycle shot out of the shed, kicked up wet gravel, and blasted past the side of the tavern onto the narrow dirt road that led up into the ridge trails.The ride through the mountain logging trails was a test of absolute endurance. The dirt path was pitted with deep ruts, strewn with loose shale, and slick with thick red clay left behind by the night's downpour.Mara rode with practiced, instinctive skill. She kept her weight low, her grip firm on the handlebars, maneuvering the heavy cruiser through terrain meant for dirt bikes. The rear tire slid repeatedly across the wet shale, but every time the machine wobbled, Mara corrected the line smoothly, leaning into the turns with complete confidence.The loud, throaty roar of the unbaffled exhaust echoed off the steep rock walls of the canyon, cutting through the damp forest air like a war cry.She was ten miles outside Briar County, navigating a high ridge path that overlooked the main highway below, when she saw movement in her cracked side mirror.A heavy black pickup truck had emerged from a connecting logging road behind her, its oversized mud tires tearing through the brush, accelerating rapidly to close the distance.In the truck’s passenger seat, Mara saw the tall man in the dark baseball cap. He leaned out of the window, pointing directly at her."They just don't give up," Mara muttered through her teeth.She twisted the throttle wide open.The Harley responded instantly, its twin cylinders pumping with newfound fury as the heavy bike surged forward along the narrow ridge path. Mud and gravel blasted off the rear tire, spraying against the front grill of the pursuing truck.The path ahead narrowed as it approached the old iron bridge—a narrow, single-lane steel structure built seventy years ago to span a ninety-foot gorge above the roaring river. The bridge was blocked by a heavy wooden barricade and a yellow sign that read: CLOSED – DANGEROUS STRUCTURE.
PREV NEXT

News in the same category

They Trashed the Woman's Harley in the Lot — Then She Quietly Made One Phone Call

10 Part