Page 14 of Blood & Throttle

And the final round? The Gauntlet. The worst of everything combined. No rules. No mercy. No second chances. Only one of us is supposed to make it out alive.

So yeah, Riot betting on me? That’s possibly the dumbest thing he’s ever done… and the most dangerous.

I glance over as he swings one leg over a machine built for destruction—a custom Ducati Panigale V4, matte black with ghosted red trim.

A monster.

He flicks the kill switch, and the engine growls, deep and low, a sound that rumbles through the ground like a fucking earthquake. The body is reinforced with carbon fiber plating,military-grade bulletproof panels along the side fairings. The wheels? Kevlar-reinforced. The exhaust? Custom-tuned for raw, untouchable speed.

And then there are the weapons.

Twin retractable blades built into the sides. A short-range EMP disruptor rigged under the frame. Steel spikes on the front axle designed to shred anyone stupid enough to get too close.

It’s not a bike.

It’s a goddamn death machine.

And he rides it like he was born in fire.

Riot’s head tilts just slightly, those cold, unreadable eyes flicking to me, sizing me up. Then, without a word, he pulls on his helmet, revs the engine, and rolls up to the starting line.

I exhale slowly, forcing my heartbeat to steady.

I grip the throttle.

And then?

The race begins.

The moment the starting light flashes green, the track erupts.

Engines scream, tires burn, and metal collides with flesh as racers surge forward in a chaos of speed and violence. The air is thick with exhaust and bloodlust, the sound of roaring engines drowned only by the screams of the dying.

The first attack comes fast. Too fast.

To my left, a racer swings a spiked chain, aiming straight for my handlebars.

I duck.

The chain whips over my helmet, sparks shrieking as it scrapes across my visor. No time to breathe. No time to think. Just move, react, survive.

Another rider closes in fast from the right, front wheelinches from my rear tire. He’s trying to cut me off, pin me against the guardrail, send me flying into the concrete.

I see it coming.

At the last second, I yank my bike sideways, cutting between two racers just as he lunges. He doesn’t have time to correct. His front wheel clips another rider, and before I even hear the impact, he’s spinning out, slamming into the bike beside him.

The crowd fucking loses it.

A wall of noise erupts from the stands—a mix of wild cheers, angry shouts, and the sick, hungry roar of gamblers watching their money burn. The ones who bet against me? Pissed. The ones who just watched me nearly take a bastard out? Loving every second of it.

They didn’t expect me to last thirty seconds.

I just did.

Guess I just ruined someone’s goddamn payday.

But the race doesn’t slow. It only gets worse.