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The bikes took up formation, Indie in the lead followed by Fury and Barry the Blade. A handful of patched members sat behind them, the highest up in the ride they’d probably ever get. Then, in the middle, Reap rode with Emmie on the back, Big Red beside them, protecting their right flank. Jake came next, looking out of place on Magnet’s precious ride, Heidi holding onto the bars on either side of the seat. Jazz’s bike screamed from the middle of the pack, the heightened tone of it out of place, a soprano amongst the baritones. Beanz sat uncomfortably on her flank, boxing her in. Then the rest of us followed, Toni and Sicknote directly in front of me.

All of us protecting our president. Because if Indie fell, we all did. And the Bloody Hand wouldn’t leave a single one of us alive.

We cruised along the country road, riding efficiently, keeping our fastest speed for the A66. When we hit that road, we’d open the throttle and get as far from the Frostbite rally as quickly as possible. Taking Cumbria as allies would have to be done another day.

The bikes roared through Kirkby Stephen, onlookers watching, some scowling, most looking at the noisy procession in awe. We piled through the traffic lights altogether, the back riders pushing through even when the lights hit red.

The A66 was fast approaching; the metres ticking down as we hurtled towards it, gaining speed now we were out of the town. The road was wide, but it climbed, and it twisted and then it dipped again. Sicknote took the brow of a hill too fast, the tarmac dropping away on the other side. The Harley went airborne, just a few inches, but enough that I knew he was nipping his arse cheeks together as hard as he could.

I checked our surroundings, watching the flanks in front of me, glancing over at the middle of the pack. Jazz was switching weight again. I knew that look. I’d seen her ride like that before. She was getting bored, the ride far too slow for her. She pushed the bike forward a little, checking Beanz, who was beside her, watching his reactions. She would squeeze out in front of him and then be away the moment he took his attention off her.

In my mirrors, a mass of dark shapes caught my eye. Bikes. And a whole fucking load of them. They were dots now. We were well ahead, too far ahead for me to work out who they were. But it was unlikely any big groups were on the road right now, because every bike club in this area would be at that Frostbite rally. Which meant we were most likely being followed from there.

I wrenched the throttle, pulling out from behind Sicknote and Toni Cannelloni, opening the Harley up and speeding up past the pack. Indie eyed me in the mirror, waving at Fury. I roared past the rest of the riders, slowing to fall in line with Indie and nudging my visor upwards.

“We have riders on our tail.” I yelled.

“Who?”

“Can’t tell from this far away. But there’s a canny few.”

Indie nodded at me, checked his mirrors, and I fell back, letting the Harley drift as the others pulled past me. Alice stared at me from the back of Caleb, but I turned away, not wanting to catch her eyes. She would distract me. And we had no room for that.

As Beanz and Jazz glided past, I waved my fingers at him, pointing to my eyes and then at Jazz. I couldn’t see her through the dark visor of her helmet, but I was almost certain she was mouthing obscenities at me as she crouched forward over the Hayabusa.

A sign for the A66 was up ahead, pointing east, the bikes in front slowing. Then, like a well-oiled display team, they tipped right, crossing the carriageway and entering the slip road. I followed, taking a good look to my right as I turned, watching the big mass of black bikes that trailed us. Then, just as I crossed the broken white lines that split the lanes of the road, I saw them from the left of me. The Hand. They were already here. Already on us.

The bikes in front of me roared. Angry shouts from Harley engines as throttles opened, and they joined the road over the Pennines. This was where the real riding would start, and now we were being tailed, we were going to have to ride hard.

Around us, a light misting of rain had fallen, dampening the road, layering any grease or oil spills with an extra layer of slickness. I revved the bike, squeezing on the outside of the pack, racing up towards Indie again. He watched me in the mirror, keeping his bike steady as I dropped back in beside him.

“The Hand! They’re already on us!” I shouted.

“Fuck!” Indie cursed loudly.

He took a hand from the handlebars, raising it above his head, circling it above his helmet. Then nodding at me, as I fell away to cover our arses once more, he opened the bike up, the growl of the engine changing to the groans of a workhorse, converting extra power and launching forward.

I tucked myself in at the back once more, watching the bikes in front of me gain more and more speed. We climbed another hill, pushing and pushing. On the other side of the carriageway, a stream of racing bikes screamed past, enjoying the long stretch of clear road.

I checked my mirrors again, the bikes behind us joining the A66. And now they were gaining. We held the advantage, but we needed every bit of speed with could muster, because we couldn’t afford not to stay ahead. And in my mirrors, I saw them again. They’d merged into one enormous pack, and now, without the neck-breaking bends and blind summits, they were riding hard.

But it wasn’t the roar of the engines that had suddenly caught my attention, but the visceral scream of racing bikes and they were coming up on us fast. I looked behind me, watching the bikes catching up, the bigger, more powerful engines and their lighter frame meaning they’d overtake us in seconds. Yet they weren’t overtaking. They slowed, covering our flanks, trapping us.