Page 131 of Blood & Throttle
We head out into thegray.
The Yard sitson the outskirts of the district, past the bones of what used to be a rail line and a tunnel system that looks like it hasn’t breathed in decades. The chain-link fence creaks as we push it open, and the sign hanging above it reads in flaking paint:
THE LAST LAP
Someone’s spray-painted over it in blood-red letters:
WHERE BIKES GO TO DIE
Inside, the world turns to rust and silence. Rows of twisted frames tower like tombstones. Burnt-out engines. Tanks warped from heat. The ground’s black with oil, streaked with old fuel and rain. Neon decals flicker faintly from under layers of grime and ash.
Riot walks ahead of me, sharp-eyed and focused, like grief hasn’t dulled his edge one bit. If anything, he looks more lethal with the weight of it.
“Luca said we need a new rear coil housing, two front forks, and a full mod rail,” he mutters.
“So… everything except the soul.”
“Basically.”
We split up, moving through the wreckage. I trail my fingers over the edge of a split gas tank—chrome, bent in half, with the name MORGAN etched into the side. The seat’s still stained with blood. The number plate hangs by a single screw. I wonder who they were. If they made it further than I will. If someone else stood where I’m standing now, wondering the same thing.
I round a corner and spot something buried beneath a half-ripped tarp. The edge flaps in the wind, revealing a matte black frame beneath it. Dusty. Neglected. But not forgotten.
It doesn’t feel like junk.
It feels like it’s waiting.
I grab the tarp and yank it off in one go. Beneath the grime, the paint is still bold—graffiti-style letters slashed across the body in jagged white:
Speed Demons.
Underneath it, in smaller yellow, it says ‘Racing.’ A glowing green demon is threaded through the lettering—not ugly or snarling, but cocky. Smug. Its horns curve forward. Its tail wraps through the D like it owns the name. Like it put it there. Below the logo, barely visible through the scratches, is a neon #39 painted in the same wild slant. The numbers tilt forward, like they were always meant to be faster than everyone else.
It shouldn’t make me grin.
But it does.
“Riot,” I call out, not taking my eyes off the panel. “Think I found something.”
He makes his way over, wiping his hands on a rag that’s more grease than fabric at this point. He crouches beside me, gives the bike a once-over, then runs his hand down the frame. He wipes at the coil and nods.
“Forks are solid. Rear housing’s clean. Coil’s intact.” A pause. “Shit. This is a score.”
“I know,” I say, but my eyes are still on the demon. “Speed Demons, huh?”
“You don’t remember them?” he asks, standing and stretching his back.
I shake my head. “No. But I like their vibe.”
Riot crouches beside me, fingers trailing along the scuffed paint. “They were a race team. Stationed out ofTampa Bay. A few miles from here, back before the Syndicate carved this place into districts.”
I glance at him. “You knew them?”
He nods, slow. “Not personally. But I saw them race. Twice, maybe three times. I was a kid, barely old enough to sneak out. They were fast. Vicious. Crowd went wild every time they hit the line.”
I look back at the frame. The demon’s still grinning through the grime, all horns and attitude. “What happened to them?”
“World fell apart,” he mutters. “Same thing that happened to everyone else.”
