I was so wrapped up watching the '50s vintage Harley coming toward me I didn't even notice he wasn't registering on my screen. As in 1950s. Well over a hundred years old, and still on the road. That machine was really flying. Well, no. Not really flying. That's an old euphemism for moving. Speeding.
God knows what he'd put in the tank. Probably running on moonshine. Nothing legal'd have it cranking like that. The sound of that motor purring down the road toward me had my blood heating up. I closed my eyes for a moment, ready to breathe in the scent of ancient exhaust.
Then it hit me. Sigh. No. Not literally hit me. My brain engaged--enough to see the century-old motorcycle was not registering on my vid panel. Nothing. Flying completely under the radar. And he wasn't slowing down. In fact, the closer he got, the farther he laid himself out along that tank. Rider and cycle shot past me in one long black blur that had my mouth watering--and my hand on my gun. He might be sexy as hell, all black leather stretched out long and lean over that tank, but nobody--and I mean nobody--runs the gate on my watch.
Alarms and sirens went off, and lights flashed down the next mile of bi-way, warning the felon that he'd best slow down and pull over before the Toll Collector caught up with him.
Not that he slowed in the least. In fact, I'd have bet a month's salary he gunned it about then.
Fine. If that's the way he wanted to play it, the chase was on.
Damn, but that view looked even better from behind.
I shook my head as I jumped into my patrol pod, a three-wheeled Flitter that was airborne at a safe hover of a half-meter or so by the time I got my Mohawk crammed into the cockpit and the door slammed shut. What the fuck was he thinking, trying to outrun a Toll Collector?
The bridge itself is a long, straight shot of highway with equally long approaches, spanning just under two kilometers of unquiet waters. This isn't just any bridge they've entrusted to me. No. It's the Golden Gate, linking Old San Francisco to Marin Co., California. One of the longest bridges in the world. One of the few still in constant operation. Sure, a lot of people use Flitters these days, rather than ground vehicles, but Flitters aren't exactly safe hovering over rough water, and the bay's never calm. So unless you've got a full pilot's license, and something jet propelled, if you're going south, you've got to pass over my bridge.
And pay my toll. Which this asshole had elected not to do.
I'm not exactly an inexperienced pilot. I know my bridge like she was my baby. She's 2.7 kilometers, from abutment to abutment, laid out straight and true as an arrow shot from a master's bow. We crossed her in just under one minute, and if I hadn't been so pissed off, I'd have been scared shitless.
Yeah, even a Troll can experience fear. Doesn't happen often, I'll admit, but chasing that leather-clad backside across that bridge through sheering winds high above some of the roughest, coldest water this side of hell at 200 KPH is more of a thrill than even a Troll is used to.
I could tell, too, from the way he hugged that tank, that he was really getting off on the chase. Every time the wind hit him he'd roll his shoulder, leaning back into it like he was riding a lover. He glanced back at me once, facemask lifted enough for me to see him grin. I'd bet my pension he had a boner the size of his ego. When I caught this idiot of a Human he was going to get a piece of a little more than my mind. I might even resort to police brutality--before I friggin' killed him.
No Human scares a Troll and gets away with it. And I'll freely admit, half of what scared me was the thought of watching that magnificent piece of leather-clad ass become one with the pavement.
It took all my considerable experience--and a wide patch of solid ground with plenty of room to maneuver the Flitter--to force him off the road at the first pullover without sending the bike into a skid. Two-wheeled ground vehicles are rather delicate at the best of times, and this one didn't have even rudimentary electronic stabilizers built in. Would have made for a wicked-dangerous cross country chase--except my Flitter's good for at least 300 KPH top speed. Not even a racing bike of the period was good for that kind of speed. I chased down a 1990s vintage Kawasaki Z1300 racer once. Now that had been a ride and a half. Shaft driven six cylinder, water-cooled, fuel-injected... which is how I knew the Flitter was good for at least 300 KPH.
I'd caught him, though. Caught him, impounded his bike, and thrown his ass in the cage under my tollbooth, where he'd stayed 'til his daddy's lawyers had come to bail him out. What I'd done to that little bike jockey was laughable compared to what I had in mind for Black Leather, here. This time, there wouldn't be any lawyers involved. Or any witnesses.
The toll crasher unwound himself off the bike and gave me a delectable view of hard muscled thighs as he swung his leg clear of the black leather seat. Black on black. Long and lean didn't begin to cover it, and talk, dark, and handsome was way too cliche. My, my. My mouth was watering, but I had a job to do.
"Is there a problem, officer?"
"Problem?" I had him down so fast he didn't have a chance to resist arrest. Yet. "You could have gotten yourself killed, Human! See this?" I flashed my shiny badge at the biker under my knee, my tusks inches from his face. Umm. He smelled delicious, too. I have a thing for leather. Especially tight black leather, clinging to a body designed for a god. I could think of a lot better things to do with this piece of man-candy besides throwing his ass in my patrol pod and --
On the other hand, maybe I couldn't. That Flitter has a big back seat. "See this badge?" I repeated. "It says Toll Collector. What kind of an idiot Human runs a toll gate manned by a Troll?"
He rolled so fast he sent me sprawling, reversing my hold so I landed under him in the gravel. "The badass biker who's gonna fuck you silly, bitch."
"Promises, promises." I shifted my leg a little--enough to rub against the thick hard-on straining against all that lovely leather. Yeah. I'd won that bet. Mind you, I wasn't going to object all that much if he put that cock to good use. I could smell his arousal, above the smell of Man and leather and bike. The hint of want was enough to push my keen senses into overdrive.
Still, it just wasn't in me to give up. And he had run my Troll gate. (A little inside humor there.) So while I might let him fuck me--eventually--I wasn't about to let him think he'd gotten away with anything.
With a move that only someone as strong as a Troll could make, I brought my knee up and sent him rolling across the gravel into the grassy strip at the side of the road. No, I didn't aim to damage anything important--do I look stupid? I just leveraged him off my hip. And rolled right after him, ending up exactly where I wanted to be. Astride his waist, with him on the ground under me, and at my mercy.
"You scared the crap out of me, pulling an idiot stunt like that. What were you thinking?"
"Got your attention, didn't I?"