The Diplomat's Tutor

Chapter 5: One Last Thrill

Charles POV:

Charles Dunn sat on a red leather seat, vibrating from the growl of his motorcycle's beastly engine. He removed his right glove and squeezed the ribbed rubber handlebar, feeling the heat and tension against his skin.

He revved the engine, listened to its cylinders purr, then lifted his tinted visor above his helmet. The sun cast a mauve and pinkish hue over the bridge's sloped domes and navy blue waters.

The traffic had dwindled but not died. A container truck and a sedan puttered toward him as a minivan crept away. He'd have to wait a while longer; Charles needed the road vacant, empty.

A lull in traffic formed, at last, leaving him alone. Charles checked the road, lowered his visor, and cranked the throttle, blasting off. The MV Agusta 4CC motorcycle's titanium race exhaust roared like a metal monster and sent Charles bursting down the straightaway. The motor's intensity rose like a giant zipper shutting as he neared or faded like a storm as he withdrew.

The wind whipped around him and pried through the crevices of his helmet. He squinted, his eyes tearing up. He squeezed his thighs against the motorcycle's sides and dug in his heels, fastening himself to the speeding machine, merging with it.

The wind burned his bare hand, and the tension on the ribbed rubber handlebar tore at his skin. The machine wanted to lift off the ground as he flew at a felonious speed from the bridge to the open highway.

If a trooper pulled him over, his money, personal connections, and status wouldn't save him, but he didn't care. He yearned for one last thrill of danger before the mission began; the risk added meaning.

Charles held down the throttle and burned through space, savoring the moment and storing the sensation of total freedom in his memory. At last, he eased into a glide, slowing down to a legal speed.

Sirens.

Their wail erupted behind him. Strobing red and blue lights reflected off his side-view mirror as a white police cruiser lurched out of hiding. Charles absorbed the new reality with cool reason. He knew the risk, and the risk had arrived; he couldn't hide from it now. He must surrender or escape.

Charles chose escape.

He allowed the cruiser to nearly catch up to him and then whipped around, facing his pursuer. He gunned his machine, full-tilt, and swerved around the police car, seeing the whites of the driver's eyes as he zoomed passed.

The cop would call for backup now. Charles figured he had one minute, maybe two, before a helicopter spotted him and a swarm of police cars descended. To escape, he needed to hide his motorcycle.

He looked behind him; the police cruiser was turning around. Ahead, just before the bridge, a rising hill would conceal him from the officer's view for a short window of time. He rode to that point, and instead of continuing straight across the bridge, he veered off the road and went down the embankment leading beside the river's shore.

He cut the engine and pushed the motorcycle up the slope toward the abutment where no one could see. He lay beside it, concealed in shadow.

Charles closed his eyes and waited, beads of sweat dripping down his cheeks, the adrenaline coursing through his body. His fingers—the ones without the glove—throbbed in pain.

The skin on his finger pad had torn, and a sliver of blood trickled down his hand, pooling in the crevice of his palm. The love line, the horizontal crease that begins below the pinkie, grew red.

The siren neared.

The police cruiser grew closer, closer, and, at last, the bridge shook as it zoomed past. Charles emitted a sigh of relief. Had the cop recorded Charles's license plate? Nope. Charles had no plates. Now, he would wait a while and hope his luck held out.

The sun set, and the moon rose while Charles relived the chase in his head, whiling the night away. Two frogs croaked in conversation. Charles wondered if one was wooing the other and if they would mate.

Soon the croaking ceased, and Charles imagined that they had done it and now were cuddling together post froggy s*x, and the tadpoles were on their way. The steady stream of the flowing river, its gentle lapping waves, soothed him and entered his dreams as he slept. Hours passed, and morning came.

Charles started the motorcycle's engine, rode up the sloped embankment, and drove slowly, cautiously, home. On his way—winding through back alleys and side streets taken to avoid exposure—he heard a few sirens and ducked into the nearest hiding place to be safe. Once, he drove straight into an open alley garage where a family was grilling cheeseburgers. An older man fixed him one; Charles ate, thanked him, and continued on his way.