Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82036 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82036 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Hawk's riding grows more aggressive. We weave through traffic, something the SUVs can't do, but they lay on the horns and people rush to pull over. It slows them, but we can't count on losing them yet.
A light up ahead turns red.
Fuck.
Not that I’m worried about a ticket, but getting racked on the grill of a delivery truck isn't how I want to end this chase.
You know we're not in South Side when some asshole has the balls to lay on his horn and stick his arm out the window, middle finger high. Back home, they wave. Whatever. We have to get the fuck out of here.
“Go!” I roar. “They're coming.”
There's a sharp crack followed by a whine so close to my ear that I touch it to make sure the bullet didn't hit me.
“And they're fucking shooting!”
Hawk revs and leads the way into the intersection, laying on the horn. The rest of us do the same as we charge after him. Tires squeal. One of the SUVs crashes into a delivery van with an explosion of twisted metal and shattering glass. Another bullet tears by my ear. Jesus Christ. In the middle of the fucking city.
We leave the intersection behind, but even short a couple cars, our shitty escort is still coming up fast.
Hawk makes a hard left, and we follow. A hard right, and for a moment my back tire loses its grip.
Fuck.
I slide just enough to jolt and send my stomach into my throat before asphalt is back under my back tire and I rocket forwards. Too fucking close.
Another left, left again, right, turn after turn. Hawk better fucking know what he's doing, or I'm coming back to haunt the shit out of the fucker. Outnumbered, I should probably be scared, but all I am is fucking angry. I hate this cat and mouse bullshit. This isn't how I work. But I'm not stupid either.
A loud dinging ahead gets my attention. Jesus fuck, is Hawk thinking what I think he is? I'd expect it from Snark maybe, or even Viking at his most self-destructive, but not Hawk, who's one of the most stable members in the club.
Blackworth is mob country, separated from South Side by Long River, which cuts through the whole city. Big enough for barges and pleasure cruisers, but the bridge ahead is an ancient fucking drawbridge, and that bell means it's about to go up. He's got us riding right for it.
Motherfucker.
Hawk bursts through the intersection without a hint of slowing. If anything, the fucker's speeding up. From the right, Eagle-eye and his boys come in right behind us. A couple of cars are already lined up in front of the boom that blocks the way, but Hawk blasts right past them.
It's follow or be left behind, but fuck, this is batshit.
It doesn't stop any of us. Eight crazy motherfuckers, one by one, one for all and all for one, we weave past the gate and start up the ramp created by the raising bridge. I’m not a religious man, but I press my hand against the medal of Saint Columbanus hanging inside my shirt alongside my brother’s dog-tags.
I twist the throttle until it doesn't turn any further and trust my bike to do the rest. The bridge is getting steeper by the moment, and I'm doing my best to fucking ignore it. The metal ramp makes my bike rattle like it's going to fall apart, and the warning bell's ringing in my ears.
Hawk is the first one to go over the top. One moment he's there, and then I lose sight of him beyond the edge. Then Eagle-eye goes, and Viking, who yells out, “For Valhalla, motherfuckers,” as he launches. It's where we're all going if this turns to shit. Snark shoots out into the open air with a gleeful whoop, then King, Blade, Ripper and finally me.
My bike is weightless. Below me there's nothing but black water. Everything moves in slow motion, my brain whirring on an adrenaline high. Details resolve into crystal clarity. How Blade's tires spin ahead of me without anything to grip, the way Snark's knuckles whiten on his handlebars. To our right, a luxury sailboat is just starting to cross under the bridge. I can take in every detail: the chrome railings, the T-shaped radar on top, the tinted bridge windows, and the surprised faces of a guy in a white suit and a woman in a bikini next to him as they watch us fly across. An alarm goes off, probably set off by a poor bridge worker thinking they’re about to lose their fucking job and spend a lifetime in therapy. The wail sounds slow and weird.
I’m not going to make it.
I'm going to smack against the edge of the bridge and end up one more corpse washed out to sea. Then I'm over and my tires slam into the asphalt on the other side. The front wheel hits so hard my teeth rattle and the shocks scream. Before I have time to celebrate, I realize the way down the other side is steep as fuck, and I might’ve made it just to end up biker jelly on the ground at the bottom.