He had to look away to find the wherewithal to start the bike. It roared to life, protesting months of disuse, and he gunned the motor until it settled into a caged beast beneath him.
Rafe waved as he pulled away. Sullivan didn’t trust letting go of the handlebars to return it, but hopefully, Rafe saw his answering smile.
The day was the kind of bright that hurt the eyes, especially with the countryside zipping by faster than he’d experienced in months. He hadn’t even had a window seat on the flight from London. The sense of vertigo had exacerbated the headaches that had plagued him for weeks after the bombing. The sun stabbed into his eyeballs, but keeping his head tilted low and fixed on the road in front of him mitigated a lot of his discomfort.