Chapter Thirteen: Gabriel's POV
1115 Words
I let out an annoyed sigh as I watched the mystery rider pull up to the starting line on what looked like a vintage piece of junk. The bike was old, probably at least ten years, and while it seemed well-maintained, it was clearly outclassed by every other machine on the line.
Who the hell is this amateur? I thought, pressing the communication button on my helmet.
"Rico, you copy?" I spoke into my headset, addressing my crew leader who was positioned with the spectators.
"Copy, boss," Rico's voice crackled through the speaker. "What do you need?"
"That new rider, bike number seven. Do we know who it is?"
There was a pause before Rico responded. "Negative, boss. None of us recognize the bike or the rider. Completely unknown."
"Well, find out," I snapped. "I don't like surprises."
"Boss, maybe you should focus on the race," came another voice through the comm - Danny, one of my newer crew members. "Paxton's right there next to you, and that's who really matters."
My jaw clenched at Danny's tone. Did this little punk just tell me what to focus on?
"Listen here, you piece of s**t," I growled into the headset. "Don't ever tell me what to focus on again. I'll deal with Paxton just fine, and when this race is over, you and I are going to have a conversation about respect."
"I didn't mean—" Danny started.
"Shut up," I cut him off. "Just watch and learn how a real racer handles business."
I clicked off the comm and turned my attention back to the line of riders. Paxton was three bikes down from me on his black Ducati, and I could feel his eyes on me even through his helmet visor. The tension between us was electric, crackling in the air like lightning before a storm.
Tonight ends everything, I thought, revving my engine and feeling the raw power of my Kawasaki Ninja H2 respond instantly. After tonight, there won't be any question about who runs this scene.
"Alright, riders!" Tommy the commentator's voice boomed across the makeshift track. "Before we get this party started, let's go over the rules!"
"There are rules?" shouted one of the riders, causing laughter to ripple through the crowd.
"Damn right there are rules!" Tommy shot back with a grin. "Rule number one: No lethal force! That means no guns, no knives, no chains, no bats - none of that bullshit!"
"What about everything else?" called out Marcus, one of Paxton's crew.
"Everything else is fair game!" Tommy replied enthusiastically. "You can bump, you can block, you can play as dirty as you want - just don't kill anybody! We're here to race, not commit murder!"
The crowd cheered at this announcement, and I felt my adrenaline spike even higher. No lethal force meant we could get physical, and I had no problem getting physical with Paxton if that's what it took to win.
"Rule number two!" Tommy continued. "First one across the finish line wins! No ifs, ands, or buts! And the winner takes home fifty grand in prize money!"
Fifty grand, I thought with satisfaction. Not that I need the money, but it'll be a nice trophy.
"Rule number three: If you crash, you're out! We're not stopping the race to scrape you off the pavement, so don't crash!"
More cheers from the crowd, along with a few nervous laughs from some of the riders.
"And rule number four," Tommy's voice dropped to a more serious tone, "what happens at the track stays at the track. No snitching, no talking to cops, no posting on social media. We're all family here, and family doesn't rat each other out!"
"Damn right!" someone yelled from the crowd.
I glanced over at Paxton again, studying his posture on his bike. He looked calm, confident, ready. But I knew that underneath that cool exterior, he had to be feeling the pressure. This wasn't just another race - this was for everything.
Let's see how confident you are when you're eating my dust, Wolfe.
"Alright, ladies and gentlemen!" Tommy's voice reached fever pitch. "We've got eight riders, four miles of city streets, and one winner! Gentlemen, start your engines!"
The roar of eight high-performance motorcycles filled the night air, creating a mechanical symphony that had the crowd screaming with excitement. I felt the familiar thrill of pre-race adrenaline flooding my system, sharpening my focus and heightening my senses.
A woman in tight jeans and a racing jacket stepped in front of the line of bikes, a checkered flag held high above her head. She was beautiful in that dangerous way that always hung around racing events - all curves and confidence with eyes that had seen too much.
"Riders ready?" she called out, her voice barely audible over the engine noise.
I revved my bike in response, the Kawasaki's supercharged engine producing a sound like controlled thunder. Around me, the other riders did the same, creating a wall of mechanical fury.
This is it, I thought, gripping my handlebars tighter. Time to show everyone who the real king is.
The flag girl raised the checkered banner higher, holding it steady for what felt like an eternity. The crowd fell silent except for the rumble of engines, everyone holding their breath for the moment that would start everything.
"Three!" she shouted.
My heart pounded against my ribs like a caged animal.
"Two!"
I stole one last glance at Paxton, memorizing the sight of him before I left him in my dust.
"One!"
The flag came down like a falling guillotine.
"GO!"
I shot forward like a bullet from a gun, my Kawasaki responding instantly to my command. The world around me became a blur of lights and motion as eight motorcycles launched themselves into the night.
Here we go.
I was in the lead within the first fifty feet, just as I'd planned. My bike was simply superior to everything else on the track - more powerful, more advanced, more expensive. But as we hit the first turn, I caught a glimpse of Paxton in my peripheral vision, staying close on my right side.
Trying to draft off me, are you? I thought with amusement. Good luck with that.
The designated race route took us through the industrial district and into the city proper, using a carefully planned course that avoided major police patrol areas. We flew past abandoned warehouses and empty parking lots, our engines echoing off the concrete and steel like war cries.
This is what superiority feels like, I thought as I maintained my lead through the first mile. This is what it means to be the best.
- Writer
