Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 105813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105813 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Lebeau was a dead motherfucker.
His front tire rammed hard and fast, the rubber burning against my frame slider, his gloved hand stretching for the knife in my leg. The son of a bitch wanted his blade back?
A churning smog as dense and black as the night sky enveloped me. My muscles heated, and my stomach hardened into a furious knot of muscle. I wanted to pull the blade free and stab him through the visor repeatedly. I wanted to watch him horizontally park against the building and explode on impact. I wanted to smell his burning flesh polluting the air as I rolled to the finish line.
In that feral moment, in the space of a seething breath, my mother’s lifeless eyes filled my vision. They told me to be patient. To be smart. To avenge with precision and cool detachment. To save the butchering for the families I was after.
My front tire hit the trash pile, Lebeau hanging right at my side. With my hands on the grips, I kicked out my aching leg and slammed my boot into his helmet. Blinding pain burst stars across my vision. No way could I leverage enough force to flatten him, but the impact sent his bike screeching along the side of the building, slowing him enough to give me the lead.
A sudden incline whipped my head back to the road. Shit, a ramp hid in the heap after all. A steep fucking ramp.
I dug the toes of my boots into the seat. Tightened my fists around the grips. Slipped the clutch. Lifted the front tire skyward into a wheelie. My pulse spiked as the rear tire hit the end of the ramp then spun out.
Behind me, Lebeau wobbled back on my trail as I pitched forward, tires first. The bike’s four-hundred pounds of wet weight shot through the air and over the spike strip. I clung to the grips, toes hooked on the seat, my body and the frame vertical with the ground.
Adrenaline quickened my breath and soared through my bloodstream. Ah God, the thrill was electrifying. I landed shiny side up, but the collision of rubber against concrete jarred the steel in my thigh, spreading sparks of agony to every inch of my body.
On my tail, Lebeau made the same jump. Goddammit. I tasted blood and unclenched my jaw, releasing the gouged skin inside my cheek. Christ, my leg was fucking wasted. I coughed through a parched throat and dropped my boots to the foot pegs. “Thermal.”
Full color returned to the visor display, the finish line blinking on the map. Two more blocks.
I ripped it up, bolting out of the alley, skirted around an oncoming truck, and stretched out on the final block. No surprise, Lebeau was still vertical and ten meters behind me, gobbling up pavement.
And fuck, the pain gripped me by the balls. The fire heaving from the wound felt like it was seconds from scorching my leg right off my hip.
The wail of police sirens rang out in the distance. Up ahead, traffic lights blinked in an intersection, bracketed by two walls of bikes. Dozens of engines revved and sputtered, growing in number but ready to scatter the moment the heat showed up.
I focused on the blinking red lights. The finish line.
In the lead by twenty meters, I could rush forward, claim the win, and collect my money. But as the hole in my leg stabbed like a vindictive bitch, soaking my favorite leathers in crimson, I couldn’t smother the fury simmering in my gut. My mother taught me how to ride, how to win, and when she died in a river of her blood, she taught me how to hate.
A block from the finish line, I squeezed the binders, spun the bike to face Lebeau head on, and skidded to a stop. He rose from his tucked lean, seemingly surprised, but didn’t slow.
On the two-lane street, a smart man would’ve passed in a wide arc and hauled ass to the finish line. Lebeau was a dumb fuck.
He approached on my left, close enough to clip me, probably his intention. At the last second, I leaned right with the bike, yanked the knife from my leg, and returned it in kind. I only needed to point the sharp end in a firm grasp, holding my arm loose as to not dislocate my shoulder. His momentum took care of the rest, the blade piercing his chest.
It happened so fast, he didn’t see it coming. Arrogance caught him. Shock teetered him. And the bite of the steel jerked his shoulders, the flinch careening his bike to the side.
He countersteered, but both wheels lost grip, refusing to regain traction. Might’ve had something to do with his hands releasing the handlebars to grab at his chest. The frame slipped out from beneath him, and the velocity of his forward motion sent his body pavement surfing until his helmet crashed into the curb.