Set the Night on Fire by Libby Fischer Hellmann

Lila kept her eyes on the jumble of shoeprints on the snow-covered sidewalk. Usually the sight of random patterns was unsettling, and she’d mentally rearrange the imprints into neat lines and geometric shapes. Tonight, though, they didn’t bother her. In fact, she felt buoyant.
    It had worked. She had the name of someone who knew her mother. She couldn’t wait to get back to Danny’s to Google Dar Gantner. She’d track him down and pay him a visit, just like she’d done with the Redakers. He would know something about her mother. He had to.
    She hiked to the corner, trying to avoid any hidden black ice. James Redaker obviously didn’t approve of Dar Gantner, that was clear. Redaker had been a jock. Jocks and hippies didn’t mix.
    To be honest, Lila was surprised, too. She’d always believed her father was a practical businessman who, by spotting and growing new businesses, was nurturing capitalism. She’d gone into finance largely because of him. It was hard to imagine him with hippies and war protestors as friends. Then again, a lot of Baby Boomer businessmen claimed to be hippies during the Sixties. Maybe it was her mother’s influence. Maybe she’d drawn him into that culture.
    And what about Dar Gantner? Was he steeped in the politics of the past? When they met, would he lecture her about the evils of the establishment and the imperialist state? Lila drew herself up. If he had information about her mother, she’d have to deal with it.
    The darkness outside was relieved by a pool of light from a streetlamp a few feet away. She was just turning the corner, absorbed in her thoughts, when an engine exploded into life behind her. She spun around. A figure on a motorcycle rode slowly towards her. The bike seemed to have materialized from nowhere. It appeared to be more high-tech than most bikes, with lots of shiny blue metal and gray plastic extending from the front. The configuration almost looked like the beak of a bird of prey.
    A helmet covered the rider’s head, and the visor hid his features. He was wearing a heavy black leather jacket, leather pants, and black boots. But his hands gripping the handlebars were bare. It was bitter cold. He should be wearing gloves.
    Lila turned back and continued down the street. A tall man was walking toward her. He wore a pea coat and jeans. A muffler was tied around his neck, and his face was covered by a ski mask. His hands were in his pockets, and his head was slightly tilted, as though he was watching both her and the man on the motorcycle.
    It was then that the incongruity of someone gunning a motorcycle on an icy street hit her. Motorcycles were for warm weather. Summer rides. Fall outings. Why was someone cruising the Gold Coast in the middle of winter?
    The whine of the motor intensified. Lila spun around. The rider slowed to a crawl and came close enough for her to see his visor was tinted. He stopped and anchored the bike between his legs. Light spilled onto his visor and split into a shiny rainbow, like an oil slick. She couldn’t see his face. He kept one hand on the throttle and slipped the other inside his jacket, which was partially unzipped. When it reappeared, it was holding a gun.
    Lila froze. Time slowed, unfolding in a diffident, detached way. The rider aimed the gun. She took a breath, expecting it to be her last. A flash of light tore the night. A loud crack followed. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the pain to rip through her body. Confusion swept over her. She opened her eyes. She was still standing, very much alive. He’d missed. But he was so close. How had that happened?
    She ordered herself to move, but her feet were rooted to the pavement. Like a rabbit, if she kept absolutely still she would be invisible. Oddly enough, however, the gunman paused as well. For a split second, he and Lila were motionless, both of them limned in the light from the streetlamp. Then he raised the gun again.
    Just as he was taking aim, a presence flew at