Page 83 of Blood & Throttle

So instead, I drive harder.

Because whoever hurt her?

They just signed their death sentence.

And I’m the motherfucker delivering it.

I lean harder into the throttle, engine howling under my rage. The checkpoint's ahead. We're almost out.

The second we hit the checkpoint, I kill the engine and swing off the bike without a word.

Sin’s still behind me, breathing hard, helmet tilted slightly, her posture all wrong.

Injured.

Bleeding.

I turn fast, grab her waist, and help her down before she can try to play tough. Her leg nearly buckles the second her boots hit the pavement.

“Easy,” I mutter, already yanking her helmet off with one hand. My other’s already on the strap of mine, tossing itaside.

Her face is flushed and pale beneath the grime.

I glance down, red soaks through the torn fabric. Shallow, but too fucking close.

Doc’s voice cuts through the noise. “Jesus. You okay?”

“Get over here. Now,” I snap.

Doc doesn’t argue.

I don’t look at the drones swarming us. Don’t register the crowd screaming behind the barricades. None of it matters.

Just her.

Bleeding.

Because some coward thought they could put her down.

I hand Sin off to Doc, voice low, dangerous. “Patch her. Don’t let her move.”

Then I turn.

Pulling my sidearm from the holster, my eyes scanning the chaos like a goddamn heat-seeker.

“Riot. What are you doing?” Luca calls out, somewhere behind me.

“Finishing it,” I growl.

Ghost intercepts me halfway across the pit, already holding out his wrist feed. “Figured you’d want to know.”

I stop long enough to study the screen.

Drone footage. Upper deck. Scoped rifle. Black gear. No faction tags. No racer ID.

Syndicate sniper.

Not a competitor. Not a threat. Just another coward with a paycheck and a clean view.