Page 80 of Blood & Throttle

Go.

Fifteen

Riot

I Chose Violence - iamjakehill

They saythe Graveyard is fast. Unforgiving. A curse you ride into.

They’re right, but they never say how fuckingloudit is.

The second that launch light slams green, I hit the throttle like I’m lighting a fuse. The engine roars beneath us, vibrating through my bones as we blast out of the pit and into the chaos, fire and smoke licking at our heels. Sin locks her arms around my waist, her body tight to mine, and we hit the fractured stretch of highway like we’ve got something to prove.

We do.

I’m not letting her die out here. I’d rather drag the whole fucking world down with us.

The first mile is already hell. Pavement breaks under our tires, chunks of asphalt torn up and left like landmines. Half the riders are veering too hard—reckless and desperate. One clips a loose beam and is flung straight into the air like a ragdoll. He slams chest-first into the edge of a collapsed lightpost, his ribs caving in with a sound I feel more than hear. He doesn’t scream. He just drops.

Another tries to cut through a side alley, doesn’t see the razor wire strung low across the corner. He loses his head. Literally.

Blood sprays across the path in front of us.

Sin doesn’t flinch. Her breath is steady in my ear.

Good.

Because the Graveyard doesn’t slow down, and neither do we.

Up ahead, two riders are fighting while riding—one’s slamming the other with the butt of his weapon, a machete sheathed to his thigh. The second guy, younger, smaller, pulls a trigger under his handlebars and ejects a mini spike strip mid-turn.

The first guy doesn’t even have time to react before his front wheel locks and he eats steel at 90 mph. The other tries to celebrate with his arms up, grinning, until a sniper bullet tears through his collarbone and sends him pinwheeling off the ledge into a pit of twisted scaffolding.

“Two down,” Sin says, voice sharp in my comms.

I grunt. “Not enough.”

We hit the underpass hard, skimming the edge of a puddle that’s more blood than water. The stench hits first—burnt rubber, scorched flesh, and that sick-sweet rot that means something human was left behind too long.

We’re not slowing.

Every part of this track is meant to kill, and I know—know—Jace is behind us, just waiting for the gap.

I glance back at the HUD.

Too close.

“They’re on us,” Sin snaps, fingers digging into my jacket. “You gonna let 'em breathe down our necks all day, or are we ending this?”

I smirk under the helmet, flip the first mod switch, and we bank hard right, sliding down a maintenance ramp barely wide enough for the bike.

Behind us, two more racers follow, thinking we’re panicking.

Idiots.

We hit the bottom curve, and I flick the rear ignition charge.

Mini detonation.