Page 103 of Blood & Throttle

After a long beat, she nods once, sharp, and turns away.

We walk out together, but the weight of leaving her behind drags at every step.

It’s harder than I thought it’d be.

Doc’s always been here. Sharp-tongued. Smarter than all of us. Stitching us together when The Gauntlet tried to tear us apart. She’s not supposed to be the one on that bed. And walking away from her now feels like a betrayal.

But I know staying won’t change what happened.

It won’t help her.

And it won’t stop what’s coming.

The only thing I can do now—the only thing I know how to do, is prep for what’s next. Sharpen the blade. Tighten the bolts. Keep Sin alive and ready.

And when we hit that track again, I’ll get our revenge.

For Doc.

For all of them.

District Three waits.

The Dead Zone.

No lights.

No maps.

No mercy.

A hollowed-out tunnel network built to swallow racers whole. Darkness so thick it becomes a weapon. Concrete so old it remembers every scream. The only way through is forward. The only way out is alive.

The Gauntlet wants blood.

They’ll get it.

And if Jace makes it through The Dead Zone, it’ll only be to die by my hands.

Nineteen

Sienna

Dynasty - MIIA

The Hollow makesthe last warehouse look like a penthouse suite with complimentary mints and working plumbing.

Cracked concrete sprawls in every direction. The floors groan like they’re one quake away from swallowing us whole, and the metal beams overhead creak like they’ve seen too many winters and too few repairs. There’s blackout tarp stapled where skylights used to be, and the only light we get now flickers inside rusted cages like it’s afraid to commit to the job.

It smells like rust, old piss, and something festering deep in the plumbing that probably used to breathe.

Home sweet hell.

I’m cross-legged on the frigid floor, cable twisted across my thighs, a soldering tool in one hand and a half-rusted wrench in the other. Riot’s bike looms above me like a cybernetic corpse mid-autopsy, stripped to its bones and surrounded by partsscavenged from crews who didn’t live long enough to miss them.

After the hell we’ve dragged her through in the last two races, she’s not exactly pretty.

The matte’s been scraped down to steel in half a dozen places, and the ghost-red trim looks more like blood now than paint. She rattles when she idles, growls when she breathes, and spits fire like she’s just as pissed off as the rest of us.