Page 81 of Blood & Throttle
Concrete collapses above them mid-turn.
Their screams are short-lived.
The bike growls under me—smooth, savage, and tuned for this shit. We shoot out of the side ramp and hit fractured open ground, wind howling past, fire rolling in from the left where another wreck burns with a rider still inside.
His hands are clawing at the handlebars.
Melting plastic sticks to his skin.
Then the tank blows.
We ride through the flame burst like we’re born in it.
And that’s when I hear him.
Jace.
That fucking engine of his roars behind us like it’s tearing through the track with a grudge. It’s all obsidian-black and slick armor plating, modded with reinforced tail vents that spit flame and a front-end blade kit sharp enough to gut steel.
Jace doesn’t ride.
He stalks.
Fast, calculated, vicious. Every race he runs is personal, every move engineered for spectacle and pain. And now he’s got a passenger.
Ash.
Fucker’s massive—tall, pale, and packed with the kind of muscle that doesn’t slow you down, just makes your hits hurt more. Tattoos climb up his neck like barbed wire, black ink disappearing under a high collar. One of his eyes is synthetic, glowing faint blue and flickering like it’s watching your soul try to escape your skin.
He used to be Syndicate enforcement. Silent jobs. Disposal. The kind of guy they sent in when they didn’t want a mess but always got one anyway. They kicked him loose after he crushed a racer’s windpipe on live feed and laughed through the suspension.
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t need to.
Ash rides with intent. And right now, that intent is us.
Sin twists behind me, visor angled just enough to get a read.
“Aw, look,” she says, voice laced with teeth. “He brought his little boyfriend. That’s cute.”
I grunt.
“They’re getting close,” she adds, sharper now. “Jace has eyes on us and Ash is already lining up a shot.”
“Let him.”
I tighten my grip and tilt the throttle.
They want a war?
They fucking got one.
We hit the broken highway stretch, chunks of the road collapsed and twisted, rebar reaching like claws from the ground. I shift my weight, a hard left, and pull up on the front just as we clear a snapped divider.
A bullet pings off the side panel of the bike.
“Shit,” Sinhisses.
