3
Logan
The vibration in my balls amplified with the speed of the motorcycle, the four banger engine screaming with exertion. Only seven miles, five sharp turns, and two deadly intersections away from an assload of money. And the crazy French fucker on my ass? I might let him see the finish line…right before his face eats asphalt.
The rear-view camera in my helmet projected his distance onto my visor. Forty meters. Thirty meters. Ahead, the glowing stripe of red stretched to the horizon, not a single break in the taillights bottlenecking Michigan Avenue.
My heart thundered, my hands slick with sweat in the gloves as I surged to the finish line, fueled by memories of my mother. Growing up on the back of her motorcycle. Her patient instruction as she taught me how to ride my first sportbike. All the broken bones. Her loving care as I healed.
But it was always tainted by the terrible fear. Fear that pinned me to my hiding spot as I watched her killer clean his knife. Fear that saved me then but wouldn’t save me now.
I shook it off and focused on the joyous moments of my childhood, on the passion she’d ingrained in me. Heat radiated through my chest, charging my blood with wild energy. Nothing beat this feeling, the grip of battle, the fight for supremacy, dominating with skill and lethal speed while straddling the kind of power few mortals could harness on congested streets.
God, what a rush. I flexed my fingers and pinned the throttle.
Chase vehicles zipped past, headed in the opposite direction, with mobile cameras mounted on the hoods. Enthusiasts chattered via two-way radio, using CCTV security cameras to channel the race on an underground network. The live feed bridged to the illegal web of electronic gambling, which enabled betting right up to the final mile.
The helmet’s built-in police scanner added an incessant buzz to the noise. Miles behind us, cherry tops had two major disadvantages. They didn’t know the layout of the racing grid, and squad cars couldn’t touch the velocity of a hyper-focused sportbike. But if they located the cluster of racing fanatics likely gathering around the final marker, they could organize a barricade there. One I would find a way to hurtle if it came to that.
In this two-man race, one of us would win. The other would die—maybe not tonight, but wealthy gamblers didn’t take to losing lightly. I drew in a determined breath and rolled my shoulders. I had this. Triumph was as easy as the whores waiting for me at the finish line. And a helluva lot more fulfilling.
Vernay Lebeau pursued my tail, gaining ground with each block. As rev-happy as he was annoying, his speeds through throngs of civilians while trying to lay me out might’ve spooked the shit out of anyone with a pulse. But his ham-handed desperation to win would ultimately cost him his dignity. And his life.
Twenty miles into the race and I had yet to max out the speedometer. Lebeau, on the other hand, took the hole-shot out of the grid and held the front door through the first half. I let him. Sportbikes malfunctioned at top speeds, just one of the numerous factors that could throw a race. Besides, I’d stolen the lead when he tried to whip a chain around my drive train.
It was a dick move, but that was the only kind he had. I grew up around bikes, lived and breathed in a cloud of exhaust, learning their inner workings until my heart pumped like a motor. Unlike Lebeau, who was just a street punk with his balls to the road and his eyes set on a six-figure prize. The French fuck didn’t have a chance.
Holding steady at 150 mph, I stitched a line through the oncoming traffic and watched the readout on my visor. He closed in at ten meters. Five meters. Four.
The rumble of the approaching bike resonated with the purr of mine. Three meters. Two. Any closer and the frog-eater could stab a shank in my arm. Wouldn’t be the first time I bled through the finish line.
One meter away, I jerked right and intersected his path on a tight left-hander. Rubber squealed behind me as the camera flashed images of his fishtailed swerve on the bottom edge of my visor. His lean angle dipped so low, his metal-spiked knee guard sparked pavement.
In the half-second it took him to recover, I opened the gas and broke through 185 mph. The engine whined, and the handlebars jerked back and forth, knocking my tucked knees against the gas tank. Following the helmet’s navigation display, I slid around another sharp bend, dodging a fire hydrant, a crowd of wide-eyed pedestrians, and a row of parked cars. Over the sidewalk and through a red light, I careened toward a speeding SUV. Fuck.