Page 142 of Blood & Throttle
Darkness claws in.
Twenty-Seven
Riot
Nightmare - Halsey
Sin slumps against me,head jerking back from the force of the gas. I feel her go limp before she stops breathing into the comms.
Fuck. No. Not like this.
The world around us is melting light and madness. Fluorescent ribbons pulse from the cracked pavement, coiling up like digital vines. Holos glitch across shattered billboards—twisting symbols, screaming faces, Syndicate betting ads that flicker into violent strobe patterns. Above us, a network of kaleidoscopic lights casts everything in electric pinks, glitchy greens, and ultraviolet blues. The Verge doesn’t look like a city anymore.
It looks like a goddamn rave designed by hell.
I tighten the throttle and lean hard into the next turn. Her dead weight is strapped against my back, arms limp. She’s not moving, but she’s warm. Still warm.
She’s gotta be alive.
The track fractures around us, flashes of exposed circuitry under glass, gas-lit tunnels glowing with synthetic fire. Neon flares explode across the upper lanes like mortars painting the skyline in glitching technicolor. Glow sticks and scraps of racer gear litter the course like offerings to the gods of chaos.
Another rider cuts into our path ahead covered in jagged chrome, his helmet spiked, a rusted chain dragging from one handlebar like a reaper’s leash. He leans into the lane, crouched low, lining us up like he’s got something to prove.
Big mistake.
I shift to take him out, throttle twitching under my palm—
But before I can even move, his head snaps back with a wet pop. A high-velocity round shatters through his visor and explodes out the back of his skull. Brain matter sprays across the track in a fine red mist, catching the neon lights like gore-drenched glitter.
His bike veers left, lifeless, and slams into a barricade with a metal-warping shriek. Flames bloom behind us.
The comms crackles.
“Target eliminated.”
Luca.
I snap my head toward the sky. There, a glint in the neon smog. Not a Syndicate drone. This one’s been Frankensteined with copper wire and old circuit tape. Its lens pulses blue.
Ghost.
“You insane assholes,” I grit out.
“Relax,” Luca drawls, cool as ever. “You’re not the only ones out here who hates cheaters.”
Ghost’s voice slices in like a whip. “Thermals are up. Full scan active. Gas cloud ahead, left lane’s your only clean shot. Move your ass or suck Syndicate fumes.”
“You shouldn’t be out here,” I growl, cutting the throttle just enough to lean into the turn. “If they see you—”
“Then fuck ‘em,” Luca snaps. “I’m not sitting back while they rig this shit and take her or you out. You really think I’m gonna watch Kane’s little lapdog slit her throat while we sit in the stands?”
Ghost huffs. “We didn’t crawl through hell with you just to watch it end like this. You’re our brother. She’s family. And the Syndicate can choke on my fucking code if they think they’re calling the shots tonight.”
“They see you, they’ll put a bullet in your head.”
“Let ‘em fucking try,” Luca spits. “I’ve got two rounds left and zero fucks to give. They wanna start something? I’ll end it.”
Ghost adds, sharp and fast, “We fight together. That’s how it’s always been. That’s how it ends.”
