Leaning all my weight forward, I squeezed the front brake. The back wheel rose off the ground, swung right, and missed the SUV’s bumper. I released the brake. The tire hit pavement, rattling my teeth, and I bolted forward and out of traffic.
As a gust of air escaped my dry lips, the rear camera showed Lebeau pulling the same endo through the intersection. When his rear tire gripped the road, he burst across the second lane, causing two cars to skid. They missed him but not each other. The ear-piercing screech of metal on metal ricocheted off the buildings, a fucking collision that could’ve been avoided. And Lebeau was back on my ass.
Thirty meters ahead of him, I flogged it with a wide open throttle, pressing my stomach over the tank and relishing the surge of two hundred growling horses thrusting me down the long slab of road. I had five digits riding on this race, a wager I would quadruple when I won. If I lost, well, I’d have men a lot more ruthless than Lebeau chasing me.
The only rule in these races was to stay on the course, which meant I could draw the Glock that was strapped in my hidden shoulder holster and eliminate him. Guaranteed win. But no one would race a man who gunned down his opponents. No, the methods of winning required stealth. I preferred dexterity and technology over the barbaric snares many of the other underground racers depended on.
I tucked farther into the BMW S1000RR’s vibrating frame, scanning the thermal images to avoid the high concentrations of red that indicated body heat. Civilians littered the streets, on foot and in cars, the deadliest roadblocks. Despite my violent reputation, my thirst for blood excluded innocents.
Sweat dampened my hair, and the tight space in the helmet overheated my cheeks. Indicators flashed across the anti-fog visor, calculating speeds, distances, rpms, and hi-tech analytics like facial recognition and live maps of approaching traffic and police hot spots.
A few more turns and another intersection later, I twisted around a hairpin and onto a narrow side road empty of traffic. The thermal sensor picked up a spark on the pavement ahead. What in the godhole was that?
Two things were certain. Someone had killed the street lights, and Lebeau was deliberately lagging behind. I gritted my teeth and spoke into the mic. “Night vision.”
The helmet’s interface switched from a kaleidoscope of color to hues of green. The shadowed alley illuminated, stretching out for several blocks and revealing a depth and clarity that couldn’t be captured with thermal. Because the bright beams of headlights impeded the technology, night vision was limited but extremely precise in identifying details…like the spike strip blending into the dark, oily crevices of the street.
The zigzag of metal thorns stretched building to building three blocks ahead. The handy work of Lebeau’s guys, no doubt. There had to be a way out.
My heart pounded, and my hands tightened on the grips as Lebeau screamed up from behind. Which way would he go?
A wall of trash cluttered a few feet before the strip. It stood as tall as the bike and twice as deep, piled against the building. Indecision tore through me, battling with the adrenaline heating my blood. Either the spikes didn’t reach the garbage or the pile hid a ramp. Two blocks to go.
I angled toward the trash as Lebeau closed the three meters between us. Something flashed in the camera image. There. Metal reflected from Lebeau’s hand where he clutched the handlebar grip. A knife.
He hammered down, accelerating between me and the building, evidently intending to lay me down before I reached the trash heap. I set my jaw and squeezed my thighs around the aluminum bodywork, tensing to dodge the impending strike.
Inches from my side, he swung, and the blade arced rubberside, aiming for my ankles. I yanked my leg up and braced my boot on the windshield, jerking the handlebars to avoid a lopsided manhole cover.
Too damned late. His hand connected with my leg, jolting a wealth of pain through my thigh. I wrenched my foot towards my body, bringing the other boot up to stand in a squat on the seat. The position protected my core against another strike, but it was a lethal test of balance at 150 mph.
Thrashing down the alley, seconds until impact with the trash, I steadied my feet on the narrow seat and reached down to grip the source of the anguish burning my leg. My gloved fingers collided with the knife handle protruding from my thigh.
Fuck, fuck, fuuuuck. My pulse sped up, and my teeth bared. I let the anger in, gloried in it as it flushed through my body. Anger had molded me at thirteen when I watched my mother’s blood spray the walls. It strengthened me through my most vulnerable years in the children’s home. And now, it kept me focused.