The engine’s roar swallowed the alley. I pressed my spine into the brick, the rough mortar snagging my shirt, feeling the heat off the bike’s exhaust manifold. It was too close. The space between the handlebars and my chest was a sliver of cold air.
“Move the damn bike!” I yelled. My voice cracked, lost in the mechanical growl.
The rider didn't move. Then, the engine cut.
Silence dropped like a guillotine.
The biker didn't dismount. He just sat there, a shadow against the dim orange of the streetlamp behind him. Then I heard it. Not from him, but from the darkness behind me. The wet, rhythmic slap of boots on damp pavement.
I spun. Three of them.
They weren't bikers. They looked like the bottom-feeders from the docks, faces obscured by hoodies that smelled of stale cigarettes and the
