hopped in Sims's Chevy and followed. Joe quickly became a small dot to them and then disappeared altogether.
Joe was at the pits in a matter of minutes. He shot through the entrance and guided the cycle around potholes and gravel mounds. He knew that Biker's favorite practice spot was the largest hole near the rear of the quarry. It was also the most secluded. Nice place for a murder, Joe thought.
A gunshot echoed throughout the quarry. Joe gunned the throttle and jumped a ridge. Before the echo of the shot had died, he'd stopped the cycle at the edge of the large pit and shut the engine off. He gasped.
Biker was on his knees, a widening stain of red on his shirt. Brandon stood over Biker waving two weapons — Sims's 9 mm and a snubnose .38 pistol. Joe recognized the .38 as the same gun that had been fired at them at the gas station. Brandon was shouting hysterically at the slumping Biker.
"Then my old man cut my salary after you finked on me about the salesmen phoning in. He said he was going to fire me if I fouled up again. I'm the son of the company's owner. I have an image to maintain. Frost promised me some easy money—fast. And, yeah, I used your name. You're just a low-life mechanic who tried to be a big shot."
Brandon paced back and forth in front of Biker, swinging his arms wildly. Biker fell to his side. Brandon grabbed Biker's collar and pulled him up.
"It was easy to talk Frost into pulling the hijacking while you were away. But why should I pay Fat Harold? He thought Biker Conway owed him the money. By planting your wallet next to Frost's body, I made sure that you'd be blamed for the murder, too."
Brandon laughed and let Biker fall to the ground.
"I'm the only one who knows where the watches are. My dad's company will get the insurance money, but I'll be able to live up to my image after I sell the watches."
He aimed the two pistols at Biker.
"Of course, you'll have to die. I'll plead self-defense. After all, everyone from Bayport to Queens knows about your hot temper."
Brandon locked the hammers of the guns. An evil grin crossed his face.
Joe kicked the bike to life, jerked the throttle open, and flew down the hill. Brandon turned, his face twisted in confusion and fear. He fired wildly at Joe. Joe zigzagged the bike so Brandon couldn't draw a bead on him.
Brandon seemed to realize he was wasting bullets. He threw the .38 aside, crouched in a shooting position, and carefully aimed the 9 mm at the onrushing Joe.
Joe ducked low over the cycle and let up on the throttle. He stomped on the rear brake and turned the bike to the left, skidding into Brandon. The rich kid jerked backward as the 9 mm roared. His bullet whizzed past Joe's head, knocking Joe from his bike and slamming him into the hard ground on his left arm. Pain from his earlier injury shot through his body like a thousand volts of electricity.
Brandon took the opportunity to run. As Joe lay dazed, Dalton hopped on his bike and sped away.
Joe stood and stumbled toward the bleeding Biker. Biker, his eyes glazed, pointed after Brandon.
"Get him," he gasped, then fainted.
Joe jerked his bike up and kicked it into a roar.
He twisted the throttle and rocketed after the fleeing Brandon. Brandon wasn't a good rider — slowly but steadily, Joe closed the gap.
Desperately, Brandon fired the gun at Joe. The recoil nearly made him lose control of his cycle. When the gun emptied, he threw it at Joe, missing widely. He jumped a small hill and almost flipped the cycle.
Joe expertly jumped the hill, moving ever closer to Brandon.
The hills in this part of the quarry were more numerous and higher. With each jump, Joe narrowed the gap. On the steepest grade, Joe was able to pull up on Brandon's right side.
Brandon kicked out. Joe swerved aside, but quickly caught up to Brandon again.
Joe pulled his cycle slightly ahead of Brandon's. He reached over, grabbed the front brake handle, and squeezed. The bike jolted to a stop and flipped Brandon
Joe was at the pits in a matter of minutes. He shot through the entrance and guided the cycle around potholes and gravel mounds. He knew that Biker's favorite practice spot was the largest hole near the rear of the quarry. It was also the most secluded. Nice place for a murder, Joe thought.
A gunshot echoed throughout the quarry. Joe gunned the throttle and jumped a ridge. Before the echo of the shot had died, he'd stopped the cycle at the edge of the large pit and shut the engine off. He gasped.
Biker was on his knees, a widening stain of red on his shirt. Brandon stood over Biker waving two weapons — Sims's 9 mm and a snubnose .38 pistol. Joe recognized the .38 as the same gun that had been fired at them at the gas station. Brandon was shouting hysterically at the slumping Biker.
"Then my old man cut my salary after you finked on me about the salesmen phoning in. He said he was going to fire me if I fouled up again. I'm the son of the company's owner. I have an image to maintain. Frost promised me some easy money—fast. And, yeah, I used your name. You're just a low-life mechanic who tried to be a big shot."
Brandon paced back and forth in front of Biker, swinging his arms wildly. Biker fell to his side. Brandon grabbed Biker's collar and pulled him up.
"It was easy to talk Frost into pulling the hijacking while you were away. But why should I pay Fat Harold? He thought Biker Conway owed him the money. By planting your wallet next to Frost's body, I made sure that you'd be blamed for the murder, too."
Brandon laughed and let Biker fall to the ground.
"I'm the only one who knows where the watches are. My dad's company will get the insurance money, but I'll be able to live up to my image after I sell the watches."
He aimed the two pistols at Biker.
"Of course, you'll have to die. I'll plead self-defense. After all, everyone from Bayport to Queens knows about your hot temper."
Brandon locked the hammers of the guns. An evil grin crossed his face.
Joe kicked the bike to life, jerked the throttle open, and flew down the hill. Brandon turned, his face twisted in confusion and fear. He fired wildly at Joe. Joe zigzagged the bike so Brandon couldn't draw a bead on him.
Brandon seemed to realize he was wasting bullets. He threw the .38 aside, crouched in a shooting position, and carefully aimed the 9 mm at the onrushing Joe.
Joe ducked low over the cycle and let up on the throttle. He stomped on the rear brake and turned the bike to the left, skidding into Brandon. The rich kid jerked backward as the 9 mm roared. His bullet whizzed past Joe's head, knocking Joe from his bike and slamming him into the hard ground on his left arm. Pain from his earlier injury shot through his body like a thousand volts of electricity.
Brandon took the opportunity to run. As Joe lay dazed, Dalton hopped on his bike and sped away.
Joe stood and stumbled toward the bleeding Biker. Biker, his eyes glazed, pointed after Brandon.
"Get him," he gasped, then fainted.
Joe jerked his bike up and kicked it into a roar.
He twisted the throttle and rocketed after the fleeing Brandon. Brandon wasn't a good rider — slowly but steadily, Joe closed the gap.
Desperately, Brandon fired the gun at Joe. The recoil nearly made him lose control of his cycle. When the gun emptied, he threw it at Joe, missing widely. He jumped a small hill and almost flipped the cycle.
Joe expertly jumped the hill, moving ever closer to Brandon.
The hills in this part of the quarry were more numerous and higher. With each jump, Joe narrowed the gap. On the steepest grade, Joe was able to pull up on Brandon's right side.
Brandon kicked out. Joe swerved aside, but quickly caught up to Brandon again.
Joe pulled his cycle slightly ahead of Brandon's. He reached over, grabbed the front brake handle, and squeezed. The bike jolted to a stop and flipped Brandon
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