Get while the getting's good

The chance of them being as hostile as your last "friend" is too high. Swearing again, you pop the door of your car open, pause for a half-second, and decide the bike is probably a better option. It's definitely faster, and a much smaller, less obvious target. You reach into the back seat and grab your pack. You snatch the shotgun up as you race to the bike, stuffing it into a custom-made sheath on the side of the seat.

You look up, realize the bikers are much closer than you realized, and scramble onto the seat, thumbing the motor to life with a comforting roar. Your bare heel flares in protest as you kick the kickstand up, goosing the throttle, intending to spin the bike in place before remembering your bare feet, and instead cutting wide and turning back.

From behind you, the rumble has grown to a full-fledged roar, one which is punctuated by a snapping noise over your shoulder. The bastards are shooting at you. You swear, slam the throttle all the way open, and tear off down the road, the wind ripping at your breasts, freezing your nipples to painful nubs as you rocket past 100 mph in short order.

As you scream down the highway, you can't help but let a giddy little giggle slip past your lips. Maybe it's the adrenaline of living on the edge. Maybe it's the irony of the situation. Not that it matters. You're screaming towards the city you had planned to leave, having just killed a man, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a backpack, with a biker gang chasing you, popping shots at you, and it feels exhilarating.

Your mind turns to the problem of losing the biker gang. The bike is eating the distance to the city far faster than you had left it, and you've got options. Cut off into the suburbs, where it may be a bit quieter, and try and lose them there? Dive into the city center, where you're pretty sure several other gangs are, and hope for the best? And what of this Colonel and his apparent slaver ring? You don't want to cross paths with them unless it's on your terms.