Page 7 of Blood & Throttle
Not yet.
Not until I know where the fuck I’m running.
The moment the doors open,I know I’m in hell.
The roar of the crowd hits like a fucking freight train, a wall of sound and violence slamming into my skull. Neon strobes flicker overhead, casting blood-red light over thousands of degenerates packed into scaffolding and makeshift bleachers. Some are drunk, some are high, but all of them are starving for carnage.
It reeks of oil, sweat, and dirty money.
I keep my chin up, expression blank, even as pain lances through my ribs with every goddamn step. I’ve heard stories about The Gauntlet—Noxhaven’s death circuit, where losing means dying and winning means selling your soul to the Syndicate.
I just never thought I’d end up here.
The guards shove me forward. My side screams, but I don’t stumble. Won’t give them the satisfaction.
“Gear up.”
My gaze flicks to the lineup of sportbikes at the startingline—sleek, deadly machines, their engines purring like caged beasts, built for speed and carnage.
But they don’t take me to any of those.
No, that would be too easy.
Instead, they drag me to a battered 2006 Yamaha YZF-R6, a sportbike that’s seen more wrecks than victories. Mismatched Pirelli tires, one barely clinging to the tread. A cracked double-bubble windscreen, spiderweb fractures distorting the neon glare. The exhaust pipe is rigged with makeshift heat shielding, but one good hit and it’ll blow like a cheap grenade. Custom fairings—one side missing, the other scarred from past crashes.
It’s a fucking death trap.
But the real kicker?
The weapon mods are stripped.
No front-mounted spikes. No oil slick release. No reinforced frame or axle guards.
Every other racer here has their own signature mods—spinning blades hidden in wheel hubs, collapsible spikes designed to shred tires at 120 mph, high-beam disorienters, and rear-mounted caltrop dispensers that turn the track into a minefield. Me? I’ve got a busted gas tank and an engine held together with zip ties and bad decisions.
The message is clear.
They aren’t just throwing me to the wolves. They’re fucking snapping my legs first.
Laughter ripples through the crowd. I stare at the bike, my blood roaring in my ears. Then I turn to the nearest handler and smile
“Guess you’re all scared of me, huh?”
He snorts, eyes raking over me, slow and leering.
"Scared? Of you?" He chuckles, stepping closer, his bodyleaking of cockiness. "Nah, sweetheart. Just wondering what a tight little thing like you is even doing here."
His grin widens, all teeth and filth.
"Ain't like you belong on a bike."
Then his hand grabs a handful of my ass, squeezing like he fucking owns it.
Or maybe it’s my tit—I don’t know because the second he touches me, my body moves on its own.
I swing.
Fast. Brutal.
