“How’d my creditors miss this?”
“I assigned it over to myself, so there was nothing to miss. I did it in lieu of payment for administering your affairs.” She held out the key. “Your license still valid?”
“Even if it wasn’t, you couldn’t keep me off it.”
“Nice thing to tell the chief of police sworn to uphold and protect.”
“Just uphold that thought, I’ll be back.”
Mace slipped the helmet on.
“Wait a sec.”
She looked over in time to see Beth toss her a black leather jacket she’d bought for her when she’d gotten the bike. Mace slipped it on. Her shoulders had widened enough to where it was a tight fit, but it still felt wonderful, because those shoulders and the rest of the body attached to it were now free.
Mace engaged the engine.
From behind the door to the kitchen there came the sounds of claws scratching and then Blind Man started to howl.
“He’s always hated you on that thing,” Beth yelled over the roar of the bike’s engine.
“But God, it sounds so good,” Mace shouted back.
Beth had already hit the control for the garage door. Good thing, because a few seconds later the Ducati roared out of the bay and into the crisp morning air, leaving its signature mark in burned-off tread on the cement.
Before the security detail could even react and move the barriers, Mace had already whipped around the staggered portable walls, angling the Ducati almost parallel to the ground. The machine responded flawlessly, like she and it had already fused into one organism. Then she was gone in a long exhale of Italian-engineered exhaust.