Page 113 of Blood & Throttle

She does. I feel the shift in her posture—more alert, tighter to me. Her trust isn’t blind. It’s calculated. And right now? She’s counting on me to get her through this in one piece.

Another burst explodes behind us.

I don’t flinch.

“You good back there?” I ask, eyes locked on the ever-narrowing path ahead.

“Peachy,” she says. “Can’t wait to send Kane a postcard—‘Wish you were dead.’”

A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth.

That’s my girl.

Up ahead, another trap—rebar spires launch up from the floor in a grid pattern. I twist the throttle, time the pulse, and ride the edge of the gap.

Another racer tries to follow.

Too late.

The bars punch straight through his engine and his chest.

Two more bikes scream past us, modded for speed but not survival. One glides low, wheels lined with shock-absorption foam. The other’s a converted dirt racer, back wheel modified to kick sparks that blind anyone following.

I cut left and Sin leans with me.

We shoot under a support beam that scrapes the top of my helmet. No room for error. No mercy. Just teeth and traps.

Up ahead, the tunnel narrows, cracked piping on either side. Too quiet.

“Hold,” I say through clenched teeth.

Sin leans in tighter. “Another trap?”

“Always is.”

I feather the brakes just as a racer guns it ahead of us, too cocky to slow down.

The wall detonates into motion—a blur of fanning blades, spinning like the ribs of hell. His helmet pops like a melon. Blood hits the wall in ribbons. His partner veers, tries to bail but he’s too slow.

One of the spinning saws catches his leg mid-air. It tears clean through, bone snapping like dry wood. He screams once before the rest of his body smashes into the ground in a spray of blood and busted gear.

Sin doesn’t flinch, just exhales.

“They’re getting sloppier,” she mutters.

“They’re getting dead,” I growl.

My HUD blinks red.

ALERT: PRESSURE LEAK DETECTED. TOXIC VENT BREACH.

“East side,” Ghost crackles in our earpiece. “You’ve got ten seconds.”

I yank left.

A hiss slices through the dark like a whisper and the gas floods fast—sickly green in the thermal readout.

To our right, two riders try to outrun it.