Chapter Seven
722 Words
The shop door slammed open, the violence of the sound cutting through the rhythmic, metallic ping-ping-ping of a cooling engine block.
Kayne was standing in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the blinding mid-morning sun. He didn't look at the floor. He looked directly at Nadia. He had two sets of keys in his hand, and he tossed them onto the center lift with a force that made the heavy metal vibrate.
"Pack it," he said.
Nadia didn't look up from the timing cover she was cleaning. She kept her motions rhythmic, steady, the only thing keeping the adrenaline spike from vibrating in her hands. "I'm in the middle of a teardown."
"The bike moves," Kayne said, stepping into her space. He was close enough that she could smell the stale tobacco and road dust clinging to his vest. "We roll in twenty. You're riding lead with River."
Nadia finally set the rag down. She stood, meeting his gaze. The air between them was a live wire. "I haven't been briefed."
"You don't need a brief," Kayne said. "You need to keep the bikes running. If one of them stalls, you're the one who explains to River why we're sitting ducks on the side of the 40."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, serrated edge. "And stop looking for ghosts in the wiring. The Road King is mine. What your uncle did to it is history. You're here for what we do now."
He turned and walked toward the back, leaving her with the keys on the lift.
Nadia looked at them. They were worn, the teeth rounded by years of use, the key ring a heavy, darkened steel. She didn't touch them.
She walked to the workbench and pulled a small, hidden compartment in her tool bag, withdrawing a worn laminated photo of the diner in Raleigh—the last time she had seen Marcus. She shoved it into her pocket, not for comfort, but for the reminder of the debt he’d laid on her.
She picked up the keys.
Six months.
She walked out of the bay, the cold of the morning hitting her face, and saw the line of bikes idling in the gravel. Five machines, their exhausts snarling in a dissonant harmony that made the ground beneath her boots tremor.
River was straddling his bike at the head of the line, his black leather jacket coated in a thin layer of road grime. He saw her, didn't smile, and kicked the side stand up.
"You're not here to watch," River said, his voice carrying over the idling engines. "You're here to hold the line. If you can't, say it now."
Nadia looked at the five men. She looked at Slate, who was mounting his bike, his face unreadable behind his dark visor. She looked at the road ahead, stretching out toward the treeline.
She didn't answer. She swung a leg over the bike she’d been assigned, the engine roaring to life beneath her the second her hand hit the throttle. It was powerful, balanced, and demanded more than she had, but she forced the machine to obey.
As they rolled out of the compound, the gravel spitting from beneath their tires, Nadia felt the shift. The shop was behind her. The safety of the known was gone.
Two miles in, the lead bike—River—swerved abruptly, dropping the gear and veering onto a narrow, unpaved shoulder. The rest of the formation tightened instantly, a synchronized movement of leather and chrome.
Nadia pulled up behind him, heart hammering, and saw it.
A blockade. Two black SUVs positioned diagonally across the narrow access road, doors open, men standing beside them in tactical vests that didn't have any club colors.
River didn't slow down. He didn't signal. He reached into his jacket, pulled a heavy, matte-black sidearm, and kept his eyes on the road.
"Keep the bikes between you and them," River shouted over the exhaust. "Don't stop."
The engine beneath Nadia surged, the vibrations traveling up through her spine, and for the first time, the reality of the arrangement wasn't the debt or the tools. It was the target painted on her back.
She gripped the handlebars, the metal cold and biting, and followed the tail light of the man who had bought her life.
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