Page 130 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"They're moving her to secondary location," Asher's voice cuts through my earpiece. "We need immediate pursuit."

Kade's tactical assessment comes through clear and decisive. "Frost, Reaper, Chaos—secure the compound and our target. Saint, Blade—mobile support for Nitro."

I stumble toward the window, watching the SUV pull away like a military convoy. Two more vehicles flank it as escorts.

"All primary vehicles compromised," Cole reports. "They took out our transportation first."

Think. There has to be something. Some way to follow them.

That's when I see it through the academy's garage door. Sitting in the corner like a ghost from my past. A motorcycle from the academy's training fleet, covered in dust and neglect.

One of the bikes Gideon uses to train new riders. Just like he trained Tommy and me.

My hands start shaking, but not from fear this time. From pure, concentrated fury.

Thirteen years of nightmares versus losing her forever. No contest.

The garage smells exactly like thirteen years ago—motor oil, old leather, and that metallic tang that clings to everything in Gideon's world. My boots crunch over scattered tools as I move toward the corner where the bike sits under a paint-stained tarp.

My hands pull away the tarp without hesitation. It's a Honda CBR600RR, black with silver accents. Similar to what Tommy was riding when he died, but not identical. Different enough that the sight of it doesn't send me spiraling into panic.

Similar enough that muscle memory kicks in immediately.

"She matters more than the fear,"I say it out loud, testing how the words sound."Mira matters more than Tommy's ghost."

The bike's keys aren't in the ignition, but that doesn't matter. I kneel beside the engine, my fingers finding the ignition wires through pure muscle memory. Red to red, black to ground, then bridging the starter circuit.

Tommy laughed when I got it wrong the first time. Said I approached every problem with pure enthusiasm, but got so excited about doing it perfectly that I'd second-guess myself into making simple things impossibly complicated.

The wires spark when I touch them together. The engine turns over once. Twice. Dies.

Come on. Work with me here.

Third try. The engine catches and rumbles to life, sending vibrations through the concrete floor and straight into my bones. The sound is perfect—smooth, powerful, ready.

I know this sound. I know this machine.

My hands stop shaking as I swing my leg over the seat. The position feels wrong for about three seconds, then muscle memory kicks in and my body remembers exactly how todistribute weight, how to grip with my knees, how to position my feet on the pegs.

I can't lose her. Not her. Not when she's finally family.

The garage door is open. LA morning traffic waits beyond it, along with whatever route those SUVs took.

I release the clutch and roll forward into the sunlight.

The motorcycle responds to my touch like it's been waiting thirteen years for me to come home. LA traffic flows around me as I weave between cars, the engine's purr vibrating through every bone in my body.

"Ghost, I'm mobile," I report through my helmet comm. "Need eyes on that convoy."

"Chaos tracking via street cameras," Xander's voice crackles back. "Three SUVs heading east toward the industrial district. Also, holy shit, you're actually on a bike."

"Yeah, well," I downshift and gun the throttle, threading between a delivery truck and a sedan with inches to spare. "Turns out I'm more afraid of losing her than becoming roadkill."

My knees grip the bike's tank as I lean into a turn.This is what I was made for.

"Visual on target convoy," I report, spotting the black SUVs three blocks ahead. "Middle vehicle likely contains package."

I close the distance, the lead SUV's driver spotting me in his mirror—I can tell by the way the convoy formation tightens, windows darkening.