Page 178 of Blood & Throttle
I lean harder into the throttle, engine screaming beneath me like it wants blood, too.
“She’s close, Riot. Back room. Still unconscious but I don’t think she will be for much longer. You have to get her out before her mouth gets her killed. Kane’s waited long enough to take her head, he’s not gonna wait much longer.”
“Unlock every door between me and that room.”
“Already on it, and Riot…”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think this is just about her anymore. They’re using her as bait. They’re waiting for you.”
A slow smile cuts across my face, cruel and cold.
“Let ’em wait,” I snarl. “They won’t be waiting long, death’s already on the way,”
I twist the throttle and rip through the north gate like hell just spat me out. Steel and chain link tear apart in a shower ofsparks. The engine growls like it wants blood as much as I do—feral, loud, unrelenting—as I tear through the city, fists clenched, heart set on murder.
“Luca and Bishop are intercepting patrols on your flank,” Ghost updates. “You’ve got maybe ten minutes until backup arrives.”
“I only needfive.”
The buildings blur. Alleyways twist. Deadmoor is a fucking tomb, and I’m the wraith tearing through it.
The HUD pulses red with every turn Ghost feeds me. I tear down side streets scorched by firebombs, across cracked bridges that groan beneath my wheels. Old signs blur past. Syndicate checkpoints vanish behind me. Gunfire snaps through the air—one stray shot kisses my shoulder and sparks off my armor but I don’t flinch.
A Syndicate truck barrels out of an alley ahead. Two guards on foot, rifles raised.
I don’t slow down.
I pull the clutch with one hand and draw my pistol with the other. One shot to the knee, he screams. Another to the face. The second guard dives for cover, too late. I floor the gas and ride past them like they don’t exist.
Every mile I eat is a second closer to her. Every part of me is fire of rage, and violence. She needed me and I wasn’t there. I’m not making that mistake twice. The structure comes into view—gray brick, dead, forgotten. Rust eating through the walls like cancer.
Perfect fucking place for a massacre.
The grey brick compound looms like a festering wound in the ribs of this godforsaken district—steel doors corroded with rust, paint peeled like decaying flesh, no signage, no soul. Just blank concrete and the promise of death on the other side.
I slam the brakes into a savage sideways skid. The tires scream across pavement scarred from years of rot and blood. The back wheel clips a rusted pipe and sends a spray of sparks into the night.
I kick off mid-motion and hit the steel door like a battering ram. It bursts inward with a groan like it’s begging for mercy and I’m the last motherfucker alive who’ll give it.
Then I throw myself into the goddamn fire.
First guard’s there. Just inside the hall. Built like a tank, Syndicate gear hanging half-off like he’s too cocky to wear it right. Shotgun halfway up.
Too fucking slow.
My blade’s already in my hand, and before he can open his mouth, it’s shoved up under his jaw and into his brain. His blood hits the wall in a thick spray as he gurgles on steel.
Second asshole’s faster. Bald head. Black Kevlar. Tactical knife already gleaming. He snarls, lunges like he’s trained for this.
Cute.
I twist, catch his swing, and slam my elbow into the side of his head so hard I feel bone crack. He staggers then I grab the collar of his vest and twist with everything I’ve got. His spine gives out with a pop like a fucking soda can, and he drops like dead weight.
Third hears it and bolts.
Panic in his step. Too little, too fucking late.
