The ascent up the Devil's Backbone was a descent into madness. Moonlight bled across the jagged rock faces, casting long, deceptive shadows that made every hairpin turn look like a drop into the abyss. I leaned the Norton so low my knee puck scraped the freezing asphalt, the friction sending a spray of orange sparks into the black night. Ahead of me, the red taillight of Victor Kane's Suzuki taunted me, dancing like a malevolent firefly.
Kane was a predator on two wheels. He didn't just ride the line; he owned it. Every time I tried to pull alongside, he swerved with surgical precision, his rear tire kicking up loose gravel to pelt my visor. He was playing with me, waiting for the altitude or the fear to make my hands shake. But my father's ghost was riding pillion, and Dax's kiss was sti
