Road Tripped (Satan's Devils MC Utah #1) - Manda Mellett Page 0,41

it out, I know it won’t stop me changing gears. I wonder why Preacher is here. Pip hadn’t named him. Still, it’s of no consequence, must have been a last-minute addition.

Like back in Tucson, Utah’s laws do not require helmets to be worn, so while we’re waiting, I take a band out of my cut and tie my hair out of the way. Then I start the engine and let it idle for the few seconds it takes for Swift, Piston, Thor, Honor and Rascal to come join us.

Snatcher takes his place at the front, behind him are Thor and Preacher, then Rascal and Honor. Swift slides into a spot behind them, beckoning me to join her. Piston, as road captain, takes up the rear.

I take note of my surroundings. On the way here, I was so intent on following the GPS instructions that I hadn’t taken much in. But then, I didn’t realise I had to, nor that I might need to plan an escape route.

“Where are we going?” I call over to Swift when we are stopped by a red light. She ignores me. But before I can take umbrage, the light turns green and we’re off again.

I’m intrigued that instead of heading toward the city, we take the main road for a couple of miles until we’re out into the country, then turn onto a paved track. After riding for another minute or so, the land around flattens out completely, and I notice we’ve come to a private airfield, a single runway heading off into the distance.

I count three small hangars, and we pull up beside the furthest one. I back my bike into the parking spot next to Swift’s, then following the examples around me, cut my engine and dismount. Swift fiddles with something behind her ear, then copies my action.

A stranger appears. He’s dressed as a mechanic. Preacher’s the man he approaches first, greeting him as he would a blood brother.

When they stop their back slapping and pull apart, the man nods at the sergeant-at-arms. “Flight plan’s filed. She’s gassed up and ready for you.”

I already kind of guessed we’d be flying else why would we have come here?

“Thanks, man,” Preacher replies to him. “You sort that engine glitch out?”

My eyes widen slightly. I’ve flown before, but can’t say I enjoyed it, preferring to keep my feet on terra firma. Faults with engines you rely on to keep you in the air and alive are not what I want to hear about.

“I think so,” the man replies to Preacher. “Let me know if you have any problems.”

Any problems? Visions of the small plane we’re walking toward crashing to the ground would probably be the result of any problem, major or minor. My unease begins to grow. “Is this thing safe to fly, Preach?”

Preacher turns with a face-splitting grin. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

At least I’m not the only one having concerns. Piston looks about as reassured as I feel. Looking ahead, I focus on the transport we’re approaching. The plane, I notice, is white and devoid of any logo except for the identification number printed on the side. When I’ve flown before, it’s been commercial, but this is clearly a private plane. I’ve heard about those from the Tucson brothers, but so far have never been in one.

As Preacher finishes up his conversation with the still unidentified man, I think about what I was told. Before I patched in, a sheikh sent a private plane to take Drummer and most of the patched members to be guests at his wedding in Amahad, the Arab country of which he was a ruler. Apparently, that had been the very definition of luxury, gourmet food, and comfortable seating miles up in the sky. I’d been jealous that as a prospect, I hadn’t gotten to go. Then, again, I sat out the journey to Colombia to rescue Mouse’s old lady. That plane had apparently been military transport with no frills. I wonder which this will turn out to be, but I’m not hopeful of luxury. It’s small with twin propellers.

“Whose plane is this?” I ask Swift.

“Ours.”

10

Road…

This day just keeps piling on surprises. Satan’s Devils own a plane? But I’m not given long to question how they can afford it, or why they’ve got one in the first place as Preacher calls out.

“Time to board.”

As we walk to the steps, I pass by Preacher who’s got his head bowed, and I see his mouth moving, but any words seem