Page 83 of Blood & Throttle
So instead, I drive harder.
Because whoever hurt her?
They just signed their death sentence.
And I’m the motherfucker delivering it.
I lean harder into the throttle, engine howling under my rage. The checkpoint's ahead. We're almost out.
The second we hit the checkpoint, I kill the engine and swing off the bike without a word.
Sin’s still behind me, breathing hard, helmet tilted slightly, her posture all wrong.
Injured.
Bleeding.
I turn fast, grab her waist, and help her down before she can try to play tough. Her leg nearly buckles the second her boots hit the pavement.
“Easy,” I mutter, already yanking her helmet off with one hand. My other’s already on the strap of mine, tossing itaside.
Her face is flushed and pale beneath the grime.
I glance down, red soaks through the torn fabric. Shallow, but too fucking close.
Doc’s voice cuts through the noise. “Jesus. You okay?”
“Get over here. Now,” I snap.
Doc doesn’t argue.
I don’t look at the drones swarming us. Don’t register the crowd screaming behind the barricades. None of it matters.
Just her.
Bleeding.
Because some coward thought they could put her down.
I hand Sin off to Doc, voice low, dangerous. “Patch her. Don’t let her move.”
Then I turn.
Pulling my sidearm from the holster, my eyes scanning the chaos like a goddamn heat-seeker.
“Riot. What are you doing?” Luca calls out, somewhere behind me.
“Finishing it,” I growl.
Ghost intercepts me halfway across the pit, already holding out his wrist feed. “Figured you’d want to know.”
I stop long enough to study the screen.
Drone footage. Upper deck. Scoped rifle. Black gear. No faction tags. No racer ID.
Syndicate sniper.
Not a competitor. Not a threat. Just another coward with a paycheck and a clean view.
