Electric Barracuda Read Online Free Page A

backseat, providing an unobstructed view of a smokin’-hot babe with curly, fiery red hair. She looked up in her mirror, sensually applying equally red lipstick.
    “I could watch her do that all day,” said Lowe.
    “Pardon me,” said White. “The room?”
    “Right.” Lowe turned. “Hey look, the lamp just went out.”
    “So we move now?”
    “No.” Lowe tapped a page in the spiral-bound manual. “Have to wait for him to get drowsy.” He stowed the book in a black tote bag with countless pockets and clasps and snap rings.
    “What’s that?” asked White.
    “My SWAT team bag.”
    “You’re not on the team.”
    “Got it at a police supply store.”
    “The ones that sell stuff to people who aren’t police?”
    “Here’s where my Taser will go, and scrambled telephone, gas mask, parachute flares, bio-warfare antidote syringes, non-electrostatic knee pads for bomb defusing, flexible under-the-door fiber-optic video cam . . .”
    “Why are you lugging it around if you don’t have that stuff yet?”
    Lowe pulled out a sandwich. “Lunch.”
    The SWAT team signaled it was go-time. They choreographed a series of silent hand signals, raised black entry shields and moved out with invisible stealth.
    Suddenly a pounding noise from up the street. Growing louder.
    “What the hell’s that?” said White.
    “Sounds like Kiss.”
    A giant semi-tractor-trailer raced toward the motel, its roof fringed with blaring megaphones.
    “. . . I . . . want to rock-and-roll all night! . . .”
    The truck whipped into the parking lot, followed by an air-conditioned tour bus.
    White clenched his eyes and smacked his forehead. “Not him!”
    Spotlights along the semi’s side illuminated a mural of a gigantic, snarling canine above a list of network air times.
    The truck screeched to a halt in front of the last motel room. People from the motor coach jumped out with shoulder-mounted cameras, others flooded the parking lot with TV lights.
    In quick succession, rock-concert flash pots exploded from the semi’s roof, its rear doors flew open and a gleaming motorcycle sailed out the back, flying fifty feet with special tubes shooting fire from the mufflers. It landed with a jarring bounce, made a skidding U-turn and stopped. The bike was a massive chopper with extended chrome forks and a snarling logo on its teardrop gas tank that matched the semi’s mural. Lying far back in the saddle was a muscle-rippled, rawhide-faced man with long, peroxide blond hair that fell down across an open leather vest and hairy chest. From his shoulders flapped a giant, American-flag super-hero cape. Standing on each side were rows of buxom babes in star-spangled bikinis, combat boots and dog collars. The cycle remained stationary, its rider gunning the engine for the cameras.
    A SWAT member stood up in what was now practically daylight. “Look! It’s the Doberman!”
    Another stood. “I love his show!”
    A third pointed at the dog-collar women. “And he brought the Litter!”
    White leaned against the side of the Crown Vic and folded his arms. “Change of plans. Let’s see how the element of surprise works.”
    “. . . I . . . want to rock-and-roll all night! . . .”
    And with a salute into the cameras, the celebrity bounty hunter opened his throttle wide, popped a wheelie and squealed across the parking lot.
    “Now that’s a real man,” said Lowe.
    The Doberman raced even faster, still balanced on his back tire, preparing to crash through the motel door. Except he misjudged by a half foot and hit the wall. The bike flipped, catapulting him into the bushes. Cameras and lights raced toward thick shrubbery with nothing but cowboy boots sticking out the top.
    The dog-collar women pulled him from the hedge and steadied him on woozy legs.
    “Where am I?”
    A woman on each side raised his fists high in the air like a winning prizefighter. The rest of the Litter hopped up and down and clapped. “The Doberman lives! He was