I hate him, sometimes.
“Can’t we please find a better way, John?” I pleaded.
He revved the engine on the bike. It roared like an angry animal. “I like this way.”
“But it’s dangerous! And stupid!” I pointed off to his right, my arm reaching over his shoulder. “We could go around back and take them by surprise!”
He laughed and looked over his shoulder at me. “This isn’t surprising?”
“You’re not listening!”
“Nope,” he said, revving the engine again. “Hang on!”
The bike accelerated so fast I nearly flew off the back, as usual. I put my arms around his waist and gripped tight. Eight seconds later, we were inside the restaurant, shards of the picture window flying behind us.
We struck a man in a suit and he fell, spinning. John yanked the handlebars and we skidded to a halt about thirty feet inside the bistro.
The entire restaurant stared at us. One man in glasses went for a gun. I shot him down.
The fat man whimpered at his table as we dismounted. John grinned at him and drew his gun.