Page 1 of Jazz
Chapter One
Freezing air rushed me, invading my leathers, winding up my spine, spreading out through every part of me like a virus in my blood. My back stiffened, my fingers slow, my responses were just a split second behind where they should be, but dangerous anyway. I squeezed the brakes, slowing slightly for the corner, releasing the handle, twisting the throttle towards me, gliding out and away. Behind me bikes screamed, the noises of angry banshees, hot on my tail.
I’d broken away from the Kings, finding a gap and taking it. It hadn’t been the plan to take half the men on the racing bikes with me. Yet, they’d followed, peeling off, and coming after my arse. And now my heart forced adrenaline through my body,pulsing and thrumming, compelling my hand to the throttle and my body over the tank of the bike.
If I was frightened, I couldn’t feel it, just a veil of calm, sucked into my own vacuum, eyes on the road, watching for every bump or hole that could take me out. Scanning every bend or bow on the road, any movement of cars left and right of me that might sideswipe me at any minute.
Underneath me, the bike sang, the engine growled. Not the deep bass of the Harley, but something more feral, a raw battle cry, grinding metal of pure, undiluted power. And speed. Another corner approached, the road sweeping sharply to the left, and I was approaching fast. I squeezed the brake, dropped the gears, the exhaust popping and crackling, a noise that I could listen to forever. But today there was no time to enjoy that sound. Today my body was reacting. My brain was almost on autopilot, muscle memory responding faster than I could think. The corner was on me. I leaned. The bike tilted to the left, tarmac and horizon all I could see. All I could concentrate on.
The engine noise changed. I pulled the throttle down, power pushing forwards, taking me out of the lean and away from the corner. The road straightened. Miles and miles of space. I pushed the bike on. Trees, bushes, fields, green, all a blur. Rushing past me. My heart drummed on, exhilaration distracting, pulling me deeper into euphoria. Taking me away from my escape, my mind wandered, listening to the sound of the engine and feeling the wind on my face.
The scream on my tail pierced my thoughts. A different engine note. I checked my mirrors. The band on my arse was riding fast. The space between us reduced every second, no matter how fast I pushed the Hayabusa, or how daring I took the turns. The next corner was coming up on me fast, and thedistance between me and those men was falling away. I slowed, leaned, forced the throttle down. My knee skimmed the tarmac, the road tugging at the black and red leather motorbike trousers on my leg. Power surged to the bike, keeping the wheels in place, holding it on the corner. Then I straightened, forcing it faster out of the bend.
The deafening screams of the bikes on my tail grew louder as they took that corner far faster than I would ever dare, their shoulders inches from the road surface. Another few metres consumed. Closer and closer. I felt a presence. A rumble too close. I checked over my shoulder, clocking the big red bike that was right on my back wheel. I had to stay ahead. I couldn’t allow them to cut me off.
I shouldn’t have broken from the Kings. I should have stayed in the middle of the pack with them, instead of splitting. Whoever was on my tail now was far faster than I was. More experienced. Fearless. And despite how much I dared to push the Hayabusa, they were braver, better riders. Now I needed to keep the man on the red bike off my wheel, because if he thought I was a King, he could take me out with one nudge of his bike against mine.
I was dropping back. He was edging forward. His wheel at my knee now. Inch by inch by inch, the bike moved across me. The only way I could go now was forward. But if I wobbled, even just a little, I’d take both of us down. In my wing mirror there was another, and a green bike that tucked in behind me so close I’d lost sight completely of his front wheel.
They were maneuvering. Intending to do something. I just didn’t know what that something was.
Another corner. And we were approaching fast. Much too fast. Red bike soared forwards, the bike screaming a battle cryof eagerness. Only in my stomach was a dull throbbing dread, fear developing. They were squeezing in on me on that corner. Forcing me to make a mistake. Red bike pulled away in front, pushing faster, the bike screaming, the corner approaching. I held my speed as long as I dared, watching the bend in the road coming at me, seeing the apex of the turn. And now I killed the speed. Braking. Changing gears. Listening for the change in engine sound. I leaned right, sinking into the curve of the road, the swish of tarmac against my knee. The bikes behind me and beside me stayed with me. No one dropping behind. Every one of them took that corner as if we were on a race track.
Underneath me, the bike shuddered. A warning. The tiniest of movements as I straightened it, almost losing control, but not quite. The road ahead was straight now. Just for a mile. But enough to go even faster. To make an escape. My speedo was already at 60mph as I pulled out of that bend, and now I watched the dial soar higher, my fingers squeezing the throttle tightly.
The bikers didn’t move; a black bike closing in on my right. My speed crept up, the Hayabusa eating up the tarmac. There was nowhere to go and no way I could pass through them. I couldn’t brake sharply and let them fly past because my arse was covered. I had to keep going and stay alert. No mistakes. No wrong corners. And maybe at the next village, the next bit of traffic, I could find an opportunity and get free.
In my wing mirrors, something was happening. Leather-covered hands pushing visors up. A conversation happening around me. Hand signals I didn’t understand, and for the first time I wished I’d ridden with the Kings more often, as I might have understood what they were going to do. In
front, the red biker’s head bobbed left and right, reading the communication in his mirrors, and then he saluted, drawing his speed back, the miles on the speedo dropping rapidly, forcing me to slow down or hit him. I had nowhere to go. Nowhere to move to. No means of escape from the metal and plastic cage of motorbikes.
They squeezed me tighter. No escape, only a fight, and although our speed had slowed, we were going too fast to attempt it. With the slightest knock and I’d be under the wheels of a ton of motorbikes. And that would fucking hurt.
Traffic and villages had been unusually sparse, yet I suspected something was coming up. Even if I didn’t know the area, there was a reason the bikes were acting now and not before. This had to be their last real chance of getting me to pull up. So, whatever I did next had to involve staying on this bike and not slowing. But with each metre we travelled, they took space away from me. Closing around me, every bike pulled me tighter.
Red bike slowed some more, the black bike moving up alongside him so there was nowhere to dip out of, two on my flank and two at my back. The speed on the dial in front of me reduced slowly, the dial falling back, escape pulling away. And then I saw it. The dense crop of trees, the track that cut down between them. We were going in there off the road. Concealed from anyone passing. And as the bikes got closer and closer, there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. My stomach dropped, my entire insides falling down a black hole.
I could run. But I wouldn’t get far. I could fight, but I’d take more than I could land, even with Fury’s training. But if I could fight just enough to run back to the road, to hope someone might just be coming along, that would do. It would have to.
The bikes moved against me, leather-covered arms signaling to pull into the little road. I slowed, tipping left, feigning. Looking for a gap. A gap far too small to get through. My fingers tightened round the throttle, yanking it backwards, forcing the bike forwards, knocking into the biker on my right. His bike wobbled. I wobbled, but righted. His wheel nudged mine, hitting it right in the middle of the spokes. The Hayabusa lurched left and snaked. I pushed my weight to the side. A fraction of a second too late. The bike fell, skidding out sideways. Metal screeching on tarmac. The leather-covered leg swished, dragging over rough ground. Snagging.
Rubber and metal flashed past my eyes. Bike wheels and spokes just in front of my face. I bobbled over a bump, my body jarring. My limbs flailing like a puppet, grabbing for air. For anything. But still I slid. Something burning along my thigh.
Somewhere, my bike stopped. The hideous screeching ceased, and the engine whirred in complaint. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting off the thoughts of the damage. Of scratches and dents. Of a fairing ripped off and the Hayabusa lying in tatters on the rutted road.
When I was sure I’d stopped moving, I took a breath, flexing my fingers. Wriggling my toes. No damage. Nothing broken. Just a deep throbbing, burning pain on my left thigh and arse cheek. I peeled my eyes open onto leather and rubber. Onto the bikes that surrounded me as I lay on the floor.
“What the fuck is a racing bike rider doing riding with the Kings, huh?”
A heavy boot connected with my stomach hard, knocking out the air in my lungs. Driving a high-pitched yelp from my throat. The laughs of the riders surrounding me stopped. Amoment of silence. But I didn’t know whether that was a death warrant or a reprieve.
“That’s because you’re not a King. Or a bloke,” the same harsh voice spoke from above me. “Get her on her feet, lads.”
Around me, the air was still. There was no breeze, no rustle of trees, no purr of traffic out on the main road. I couldn’t hear any of it. But I could hear the swish of bike leathers, the clunk of kickstands pulled out, the crunch of boots on gravel.
I pushed my hands onto the decaying tarmac, the wind that had been knocked out of me not yet returning, my chest heavy and my body not listening to the wild screaming in my brain. Shouts of escape soaked into battered, grazed muscles. Hands gripped my biceps. Rough squeezes, yanking me up onto wobbly feet.
The man with the ‘Vice President’ badge pushed up my visor and stared at me. Cold grey eyes trying to violate my soul.