Road rash was the least of his problems. His limbs tumbled to a stop, twisted at awkward angles around his unmoving torso. Dead or alive, it made no difference. The mobsters who bet on him would see that he never ate another croissant or frog or whatever he shoved in his prissy mouth.
Sirens grew in proximity and volume, and my GPS alerts blared in my ears. The cops were four blocks away. I thrashed the throttle, pivoted the bike toward the finish line, and shot forward. The rear-view camera showed several guys dragging Lebeau off the street and into a waiting getaway car. Probably the same asshats who threw the spike strip and who would probably help him flee the country and the target that was now on his back.
Unlike Lebeau, I didn’t need a team of people to hold my damned dick. I wore the most hi-tech helmet in existence. Binocular-wide field-of-view, voice-activated, powered by Bluetooth controls on the bike, and wired to the Interwebs, the head-up display kept my eyes on the road, and the 9mm plating protected my skull. The U.S. military would cream themselves if they discovered my warehouse, my intel, and the engineer who worked for me.
As I rolled beneath the traffic light, a notification popped up on the visor display, alerting me that my winnings had been deposited in one of my offshore accounts. I gripped the wound on my leg and drew a deep breath through my nose. I might’ve smiled if my jaw wasn’t locked in a teeth-grinding grimace of pain.
Speculations on what I did with my winnings were as satisfying as they were inaccurate, some theorizing the lavish lifestyle of a playboy, others romanticizing the philanthropy of a heroic outlaw. I fed the rumors, planting seeds of embellishment that disguised the truth.
Destroying Trenchant Media, the most influential entity in the nation, had been my mother’s crusade. Killing the two prominent families behind the conglomerate was mine.
Motorcyclists and pedestrians invaded the street, fleeing in all directions to circumvent the nearing sirens. I savored the chaos. It kept me aware, focused, searching for my exit.
I motored through the exodus, held up by the mass of scuttling people, and maintained my trademark silence as the shouting echoed off the buildings. Evader! What’s your real name? Where did you learn to race? Show us your face. Take me for a ride, baby. Did Lebeau cut you?
Could they not see the wound seeping all over my leg? Leather-clad women pressed their tattooed tits against my arms, begging for a ride, their glimmering eyes promising a wild ten minutes against an alley wall or a dirty hour between motel sheets.
I shoved at their wandering hands and gunned the bike through the crush. If I wanted to ambush someone, trick him, and learn his identity, I’d do it while his pants were around his ankles. So yeah, I didn’t fuck the women connected to the race. My paranoia prohibited it. And at the moment, so did the hole in my leg.
Didn’t stop me from scanning the frenzy for a silver Ducati Testastretta. She wasn’t always here, but when she was, she lingered on the outskirts, always alone, eerily still and watchful. I probed the mob of bodies, searching for her seductive curves sheathed in metallic silver leathers.
Seriously, who went to the trouble to custom match their wardrobe to the paint on their fairings? Someone with too much money. Someone who didn’t belong in this scene.
The fat-wallet investors in this business didn’t ride, and they certainly didn’t attend the races in person. Who the fuck was she?
Helmets and hair of every color and style spread out above the thinning horde. Maybe I missed her? I held my breath and headed for my escape route, seeking her signature braid, the thick rope of blonde hair that snaked from her silver helmet, curling around her chest and teasing her waist. I wanted to use it to bind her wrists while I fucked her.
Which was the most irrational fucking thought I’d had all night. Must’ve been the lingering adrenaline. I needed to shed my racing persona, find a willing body, and fuck the energy out of my system. First, I needed to kick dust and find a doctor.
Red and blue lights reflected off the glass building a block away, the piercing sirens rising above the rumble of scattering motorcycles. Out of time.
I revved the throttle and spun out the rear wheel with the front brake locked, a fast way to scatter the masses. Then I bolted through an opening and gagged it the hell out of there.
The thermal sensor flashed red as I rounded a blind corner. I shifted left to avoid the oncoming bike and blinked. The silver Ducati.
My heart thumped, and my muscles twitched to flip a U-turn and pursue her.