Page 75 of Jazz

Reap turned walking away, metal clanging off the concrete floor. My eyes followed the noise, glancing at the big knife that had dropped at his feet. Reap’s eyes were there too, snapping back to me in an instant.

“How did you know I’d be here?” I whispered as he turned his back and headed for the stairs.

“Mamma Dot sent me a message. Told Indie I needed to step out and make a call.”

“Thank you, Reap.”

“Oh, and Jazz?”

I tilted my head in response.

“Hurry the fuck up. Church’ll be finished soon, and I didn’t fucking see you. So do me a favour and either take that knife with you or kick it under those barrels and I’ll get it later.”

Reap didn’t wait for me to nod or agree. He bounded up the concrete steps and was swallowed by the darkness.

“Can you walk?” I asked Chase as I sawed through the ropes that suspended him from the beam.

The ropes popped, and Chase fell forward onto the rough ground.

“I’ll walk, Tiger,” he said breathlessly.

“Good. Then we need to go.”

We moved through theDog on the Tyne, Chase limping beside me, his arm over my shoulder, half his weight draped over me. He was limping badly, his face contorting with every step. And now and then he would hiss loudly. My stomach tightened with tension the closer we got, my heart pounding, every tiny noise jolting through me, my fight-or-flight senses ablaze.

And with every step closer to that door that led out into the back of the carpark, that tension grew. One step. Two steps. Closer. Closer. We were almost there. We were almost out.

Floorboards creaked overhead. Footsteps. Church had finished.

And there was the door. Just ahead. The fire exit sign above glowed in a sickly green neon. I moved quicker now, half dragging Chase, panic that had been welling in my stomach rising to a crescendo. I pushed at the bar. The door clattered open noisily. An alarm blared in the background.

Fuck. Since when did Indie have this door alarmed? Chase’s head reeled around, craning over his shoulder.

“We need to move. Come on.” I instructed, grabbing at the keys in the inside of my jacket.

I threw a helmet at Chase, and he spun it in his hands

“It’s Fury’s spare. Put it on!” I shouted, sliding my leg over the bike and starting her up.

The Hayabusa screamed. A battle cry. Ready for war.

“I’ve never fucking ridden pillion in years,” Chase grumbled, sliding the black helmet down to cover his face, hiseyes squeezing shut for a second as he pulled it over the bruises swelling over cuts.

“Just get on, Chase.”

He slid in behind me, his arms closing around my waist, the weight of him shifting the balance of the bike. The Hayabusa dipped slightly under us, heavier now, tighter. The back end felt anchored, less responsive, the power twitching for release under the extra load. I revved once, the engine snarling like a caged animal, and we shot forward, tyres spitting gravel and dust across the broken car park. The sudden drag of his weight made the bars fight against me, the steering sluggish until I leaned hard into it, forcing the Busa to obey. My pulse matched the revs as I shifted gears out on the road, the bike clawing for grip, the rear wheel kicking over a patch of oil, and my heart raced faster than the motorbike.

The bike pulled on into the night, streetlights streaming past in ribbons of bright white light. The cold ripped tears from my eyes but never stole my concentration as I weaved around traffic crawling on the A1. Faster and faster. And the bike took every pull of the throttle, every turn of the handlebars. Eventually, I couldn’t feel Chase on the back. I’d adjusted to the extra weight, and he stuck to me effortlessly.

The tap on my shoulder came after Durham, Chase signalling to pull over.

“Where we going, Jazz?”

“South. I dunno. Anywhere.”

“I need to go back to my shop. There’s some things we’re gonna need.”

I nodded. “Where?”