Read No Shelter for Free Online

flicks to yellow and then red. Cars are stopped in front of me and I swerve up onto the sidewalk, downshift so I don’t run into the late night stragglers.  
    At the corner I glance back, see Roland’s men are right on my tail. They’re following my lead, up on the sidewalk now, and I give it an extra second before I pop the clutch and then I’m speeding over the sidewalk onto Tropicana Avenue.  
    I’ve been to Las Vegas before at least a half dozen times, I know my way around the city pretty well, and my plan now is to lose them on the Interstate.  
    So that’s just what I do—I merge onto 15 and head north. The traffic is lighter here. A couple taxis, a couple tractor-trailers, a number of cars. As I pass one car I look over just as the car’s driver looks over. He sees me on the bike, sees me in my outfit with my skirt and shirt flapping in the wind, and makes a face. Because he can’t see my smile, I give him a thumbs up. Then I glance behind me and see the two of them back there, headed my way. I let up off the throttle, letting them catch up. As they do, I reach behind me for the TEC-9.  
    Seconds later the two men are riding right on my tail. We’re doing seventy-five miles per hour, almost eighty. They’re spread out, one behind me on the left, the other behind me on the right. Both of them have their weapons drawn. I hit the brake just a little and they zoom past, both looking back at me as the same time. I do a quick enne-meene-minee-moe and then I raise the TEC-9, fire at the man to my right. The bullets hit him in the back. He goes down hard, the bike scraping against the highway, spitting up sparks.  
    The other man points his gun back at me. He starts firing. I duck and swerve off to the left and—shit—lose the TEC-9 in the process.  
    The man veers wide to the right. He glances my way, starts to drop back. I accelerate. I push it hard, watching the glowing needle go up to eighty, eighty-five, ninety, and I concentrate on the highway, on the cars and taxis and tractor-trailers, swerving from one lane to the next, knowing the man is right on my tail. No way is he going to try to take another shot, not at this speed, but then again I have run into dumber dipshits, so maybe this one will surprise me.  
    I try calling Nova or Scooter, but my voice is too muffled because of the helmet. Besides, the transmitter only goes up to two miles, and if everything went accordingly for them, they should already be headed to the garage.  
    The interchange is coming up fast. I make a split-second decision and then veer right, merging onto 515. I continue on for maybe a tenth of a mile and then slow for the exit. Next thing I know I’m back on Las Vegas Boulevard. Driving up three blocks and then pulling over onto the side of the street, I jump off the bike, take off my helmet, and glance back the way I came.  
    Roland’s man has kept up and is coming my way.  
    Making sure he sees me, I wait another moment and then turn and start down Fremont Street.  
    Despite the late hour, the place is still packed. At this time of night, the freaks have come out. I figure with my outfit I should blend right in, but still I get a few stares, even a whistle. I glance back, expecting to see Roland’s man having ditched his bike, following me now on foot. But I’ll be damned if the crazy son of a bitch hasn’t driven up onto the sidewalk. He’s revving his engine as he maneuvers around people trying to scurry out of his way, and he has the gun in hand, as if he isn’t making himself conspicuous enough.  
    If there is a God, he’d have police swarm on this stupid shmuck right now, but maybe God’s busy playing craps at the Golden Nugget. I am by myself, surrounded by people, and without looking back—with just sensing it—I know Roland’s man has seen me.  
    I approach the Four Queens, quickly dart into the casino. If I draw some stares, I’m not aware of it, because I keep my focus on the entrance. I