Page 89 of Blood & Throttle
“She say anything?” he asks, his voice lower now, darker.
“Yeah.” Ghost pauses. “Right before she passed out.”
He looks between us.
“She said one word.”
“Who?” Riot snaps.
“Jace.”
Riot doesn’t react.
Not with his face, but the silence that follows is heavier than anything I’ve ever felt.
It’s not a stillness, it’scontainment.
A bomb in human skin.
And Riot?
He’s not walking anymore.
He’s about to detonate.
We storm out of the quarters with Taz racing ahead of us, paws hitting the floor like warning shots.
The warehouse isn’t loud this time.
It’s too aware.
Racers pretend to work on their bikes, heads down, eyes flicking up as we pass. Syndicate handlers hover near the pit boards, their voices suddenly hushed, like they’re trying not to attract attention.
But we’re already drawing it.
Riot walks like a loaded weapon—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, every step deliberate. Not fast. Not panicked. Justfinal.
And they all feel it.
Bishop is near the workbench, smoke curling from a cigarette burning between two fingers he’s forgotten to flick. Luca leans against the scaffolding, arms crossed, mouth a tight line. Neither speaks.
Neither needs to.
They’re watching the way you watch a storm roll in over open ground—too big to outrun, too violent to survive if you’re caught in the open.
We hit the double doors of the infirmary and Riot shoves them open without hesitation.
The lights inside hum like insects—cold and unforgiving.Sterile white panels flicker overhead, illuminating the makeshift operating table at the center of the room.
The smell of antiseptic and blood hits instantly. Beneath it? Burnt flesh. Melted rubber. Something metallic and wrong.
And there she is.
Doc.
Her body’s limp, swaddled in blood-soaked gauze and strips of salvaged mesh. One eye is swollen completely shut. Her cheek’s split to the bone. Jaw wired shut. Her ribs are wrapped so tight I can’t even see her breathing.
Her arm’s in a brace—twisted in a way that tells me it didn’t just break—itshattered.
