Claimed By The Inferno Riders

Chapter Ten

The asphalt disintegrated into loose gravel, then violently transitioned into deep, rutted dirt.

Nadia’s teeth clicked together hard as the heavy cruiser bottomed out in a washout trench. The front suspension compressed to its absolute limit, sending a jarring shockwave straight up her forearms to her shoulders. These were street machines—heavy, low-slung, and built for highway asphalt. Tearing them through unmaintained logging roads at sixty miles an hour was mechanical abuse.

She didn't roll off the throttle.

Ahead of her, River cut a ruthless line through the thick pine canopy, treating the six-hundred-pound motorcycle like a dirt bike. The temperature plunged ten degrees the second they broke the treeline, the suffocating summer heat suddenly choked out by the dense, ancient shadows of the ridge.

Dust was no longer the enemy; it was the terrain.

The road narrowed into a single lane of blind curves and jagged bedrock. Nadia felt the rear tire break traction, sliding out violently to the right as she hit a patch of loose shale. Instinct screamed at her to hit the brake. Muscle memory—drilled into her on the flat-track circuits—overrode the panic. She leaned her weight hard into the slide, gave it a fraction more throttle, and forced the heavy tire to bite back into the dirt.

The bike snapped back into alignment with a violent jerk that almost tore her grips loose.

A shadow pulled up perfectly parallel to her left flank.

Slate.

He had dropped back from the front of the pack, putting his own machine directly between her and the sheer, unguarded drop-off that plunged into the ravine below. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring dead ahead, his body moving in fluid sync with his bike, absorbing the brutal terrain. He wasn't trying to slow her down or baby her line. He was acting as a physical guardrail.

If she went down, she was going to hit him before she hit the edge.

It was an asymmetrical, reckless maneuver that permanently compromised his own safety, and he executed it without signaling.

They rode hard for another twenty minutes, winding deeper into the Appalachian spine until the sound of their own exhaust was swallowed entirely by the dense timber. Finally, River raised a closed fist.

The formation aggressively downshifted.

They rolled into a natural clearing—a bowl of dead earth surrounded by vertical walls of granite that offered total concealment from the air and a single, defensible choke point on the ground.

River killed his engine. The others followed suit in rapid succession.

The silence that rushed back in was massive, ringing in Nadia's ears like a physical pressure. She kicked the side stand down and swung her leg off the bike. Her legs nearly buckled the second her boots hit the dirt. The adrenaline was rapidly oxidizing, leaving behind a hollow, shaking exhaustion that felt like battery acid in her veins.

Ghost immediately scrambled up the highest rock face, rifle slung over his back, securing the high ground. Kayne began checking the perimeter, his heavy boots crunching dead leaves.

Nobody spoke.

Nadia stripped off her leather gloves. Her left ring finger was stiff, the blood from where she had torn it on Slate's zipper now dried into a dark, oxidized crust against her skin.

She walked straight toward the front of her bike and knelt in the dirt.

"What are you doing." It was Kayne. He had stopped his sweep, his hand resting casually on the butt of the knife strapped to his thigh.

"Checking the oil pan," Nadia said, her voice raspy from the dust. She ran her bare hand under the hot undercarriage, feeling blindly for the slickness of a fracture. "I hit a rock shelf three miles back. Suspension bottomed out."

"It's not leaking," Kayne stated.

"You can't see a hairline fracture from where you're standing," she shot back, pulling her hand out. Her fingers were coated in dry road grime, but no wet oil. She exhaled a tight breath. "It's clean."

River walked over, the crunch of his boots deliberate. He stopped beside Kayne, looking down at her as she stayed kneeling in the dirt.

"You didn't brake when you caught the shale," River noted.

"If I grabbed the brake on a six-hundred-pound bike sliding on loose rock, I would have high-sided," she said, standing up to meet his eyes. "You would be carrying me out of here in a bag."

"Most riders panic," River said. It wasn't a compliment. It was an observation.

"I'm not most riders," Nadia said.

River held her gaze for a long, heavy second. He didn't smile, but something fundamental in the rigid posture of his shoulders unlocked. The assessment was over. She wasn't just a liability they were dragging through the woods; she was an asset that could hold its own weight.

"Thirty minutes," River announced to the clearing, turning his back on her to address the men. "Let the engines cool. Drink water. Then we push for the state line."

Nadia leaned against the gas tank of her bike. She looked across the clearing and met Slate's eyes. He was holding his dented canteen, the same one he had offered her at the weigh station.

He didn't walk over. He didn't offer an apology for the last two years. He just unscrewed the cap, took a drink, and held it out across the ten yards of dirt between them.

An offer. Not a demand.

Nadia pushed off the bike and started walking.