Red Light

ANOTHER SNEAK PEEK AT 

THE SOON-TO-BE-PUBLISHED NOVEL,  

COURIER.








Suddenly, he came alert, as the
part of his mind that never stopped screening traffic demanded all his
attention. He had long ago realized that the only way to stay alive on a motorcycle
was to make it a rule that any accident would be his fault, or at least he'd
sure as hell pay the penalty. That way he was always ready for drivers who
would squeeze him into a line of parked cars without a glance, or decide to
make a left turn directly in front of him.

A black car coming along L
Street on his left wasn't slowing as it neared the light at 18th. Rick
rechecked—he still had a clear green. His eyes switched back to the car and saw
that the driver's head—outlined in the store lights behind him—turned so that
he stared right at the big motorcycle.

The black car blew the red
light only yards ahead.

Time slowed.

Rick slammed down on both
brakes, and both front and rear wheels began to skid. It felt like the car in
front of him was crawling by, stretching out longer and longer to fill all
possible avenues of escape.

As his wheels screamed on the
pavement, Rick knew that he was losing steering control and forced his right
hand to loosen up on the front brake lever while keeping a full lock on the
foot pedal that controlled the rear brake. He was bringing his speed down fast,
but that damn black car was still blocking the road in front of him.

That son of a bitch must have
slowed in the intersection!

He could feel the back tire
begin to skip and knew he was losing precious traction every microsecond that
it spent in the air. He needed to get the back wheel down and in solid contact
with the road—fast. He slammed his body back and actually came right off the
seat to sit on top of the radio, throwing all his weight directly over the rear
tire.

He felt the tire grab the road
as the tread caught and the stuttering of the rubber treads became a steady
scream. He was still going too fast to steer and that damn car was simply not
moving fast enough to get out of his way, so he tensed for a jump. Getting his
body up in the air and flying over the car's trunk would mean some nasty
scrapes on the other side, but it was either that or turning into a red smear
on the car’s rear fender.

He fingered just a bit of
tension back into the front brake, and that made the difference. He flashed
past the car, and time jerked back to normal. His right leg couldn't have been
more than a half-inch from the wicked-looking steel bar that topped the rear
bumper.

He unlocked the rear wheel and
slowly, carefully, pulled over to the curb and stopped. His hands were so
clenched that he had to force them to relax finger by finger. After he released
his death-grip on the handlebar, he held his gloved hands out in front of him, and
just watched them shake for a long moment.

The right hand—the brake
hand—felt strained, as if it was still grabbing for more stopping power. He
looked down the right side of the BMW. The rear brake pedal was bent, almost
broken. Calmly, he thought, going to have
to stop by the garage and get that fixed.

He looked back, expecting to
see that the Chevy had stopped and the driver was coming over to see if he was
okay. More likely, he'd come over and yell at him for almost getting in his
way.

The black car was gone.

As he sat there, he saw the
light finally turn red.

Rick blew out a deep breath and
drove the half block to the bureau—slowly and carefully.
Terry Irving Author of "Courier"