(MILES)
Arlo presses the gas pedal and the bike jerks forward. We stumble and almost fall because neither of us has an idea how to ride a dirt bike. Somehow, Arlo manages to keep the bike upright and we speed towards the front of the cabin. The acrid smell of gas and burning motor oil fills my nostrils as we gear towards the road.
As soon as we pass the cabin, two men in fitting black suits appear, running out of the cabin with their guns drawn. Arlo guns the motor and the speeds past them. The roar of the engine is so loud that I can barely hear anything. At this point, I fully expect to feel a bullet rip through my flesh.
I should have done the right thing earlier and leave Arlo behind to distract them by driving off the dirt bike, yet here I am clinging precariously to him as he speeds on the rocky road winding down the mountains.
