Excerpt from CHAPTER 6

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      The bikes stabilized. With a terrific roar, the three hogs jerked in pursuit. Rumbling down the sidewalk to avoid the swamp in the street, they raced to the Emporia.
      Without warning, the Harleys burst into the lobby. People screamed. Those too slow to leap aside were run down as the hogs traced eights amid belching smoke.
      Ray pointed to the down escalator, and grinned. “Let's get us some exercise!” he yelled over the roar of the motors.
      Dicker nodded. He steered his hog onto the steps, revved and sped down triggering a stampede among the pedestrians. Cole and Griff followed. They emerged in a brightly lit, well-maintained section of the tunnel, which was entirely dry, and the bikers raced ahead. An open ten-foot gateseal appeared. They sped through, tires bucking at the threshold to spin air.
      Moments later they sighted a garish sign: 'Sweats-R-Us.” Slowing, they cut off the engines and rolled forward in silence. Behind the counter a metallic sound reverberated as if a length of pipe had fallen. Carl backed out, mumbling.
      Griff rolled near and Jimbo slipped off.
      “Gotcha!” 
      Jimbo grabbed Carl by his collar.
      Ray dismounted from behind Dicker. “Yeah, asshole! Guess who? My, are you in deep shit now. Cause now we're gonna take your money, and whatever snow you still got, and your nose-picker. When we get through with you, pretty boy, you won't be shakin' hands with no more pals, and you won't be porkin' no more pretty ladies–unless they like real ugly one-armed guys with no money! How do you like that, Mr. Postman?”
      From his pocket, Carl drew Jimbo's 045.
      Everyone froze.
      As in slow motion, the barrel aimed and fired. . .
      ****

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