Page 161 of Blood & Throttle
“All racers and crew, load up. Convoy rolls in sixty.Drones are active. Snipers are watching. Don’t make us put you down before the race even starts.”
Sin tosses me my helmet. “Let’s ride.”
Above us, a fleet of OmniCast drones buzz to life, casting a low mechanical hum across the sky. Their lenses glow like red eyes. Watching. Recording. Judging.
Farther off, sniper towers shift, barrels visible through the slats. No one here is free. Not yet.
I slide my helmet on, the HUD syncing to hers in a sharp flicker of green.
She pulls hers on too, climbs up behind me, her arms winding around my waist like they were built for it. Her body presses close, grounding me like only she can.
Bishop, Luca, and Ghost climb onto the bus. The engine roars as it preps to follow us out. Taz barks once from her crate in back.
I kick the engine over.
Deadmoor waits.
But as I ease the bike toward the gates, my eyes cut toward the tower.
Voss stands at the top balcony. Watching. Smiling like he already knows the ending.
I hold his gaze.
Then I rev the throttle—slow, deliberate—with a promise forged in fury and sealed in blood.
Win or die.
Either way, I’m taking your fucking head.
Thirty-One
Sienna
Lights Down Low - Maejor
We pullinto the lot like a convoy of ghosts—tired, wired, and far too used to blood on our boots.
The motel looks like it gave up on trying decades ago. Neon sign flickering like it’s choking on its last breath. Paint peeling. Windows grimy. A cigarette graveyard litters the curb. One wrong turn and we’d be in a horror movie. Perfect.
Concrete crunches beneath my boots as I swing off Riot’s bike and roll my shoulders. My ass is numb, spine kinked, hair wind-whipped into a mess of knots and sweat. I yank off my helmet and shake out the snarl, fingers combing through the tangles like I can scrub away the tension crawling up my neck.
I swing off the bike and immediately wince, legs stiff, ass completely numb.
“Shit,” I mutter, stretching my back. “I can’t feel my legs. That ride wrecked me.”
Bishop slings a duffel over his shoulder and smirks. “You gonna be able to walk, or should I grab you a cane, Grandma?”
I smirk, cocky as hell. “Please. I’ve never ridden anything that leaves me unable to walk.”
“Yet,” Riot drawls from behind me.
I turn and there he is, leaning against the bike like he owns the fucking planet, cigarette between his lips, arms crossed, smug carved into every inch of him.
“I seem to recall a certain night in the Verge,” he says. “Strip club. Neon lights. You couldn’t even hold yourself up halfway through. Pretty sure I’ve already beaten that record but I’m happy to try again.”
Heat flashes up my neck. “You’re such a dick.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining then.”
