Grace clung to Tate, her arms winding around his waist with such ferocity that her knuckles turned white. Every time the motorcycle banked into a turn, she felt the terrifying proximity of the ground, and behind them, the relentless roar of the pursuers grew louder, teeth rattlingly close.
"They’re catching up!" she screamed, the wind tearing the words from her lips.
Tate didn't speak. His muscles were corded steel under her hands, his body a silent engine of focus. He leaned further, pushing the machine past its limit, the exhaust howling in protest. His phone, clipped to the dashboard, erupted with a piercing chirping. He didn't slow down. With one hand clamped onto the throttle and the other juggling the comms, he managed to answer.
Jacob’s voice crackled through the speaker, calm an
