Salt air seeps through the cracked windows, tangled with the smell of leather, sweat, and the chalk dust that never fully leaves the mats no matter how much we mop. The bell over the door gives a lazy jingle and catches my attention. Lady Cain steps infirst, boots hitting the floor in a steady, unhurried beat, her black leather cut with the Royal Harlots rocker zipped tight. Lolita’s right behind her also in her cut. Her hair is in a braid that hangs down her back, sunglasses still perched on top of her head even though it’s not bright out. They’re not dressed to work out. And they’re sure as hell not here to chat. Their boots and cuts could only mean one thing.
Cain’s gaze finds me immediately. “We’ve got something. You’re coming.”
No hello. No explanation. Just that flat, clipped tone she uses when there’s no room for negotiation.
I strip my gloves, letting them drop to the mat, and shake my hands out. “Where?”
“On the ride,” Cain says, already heading toward the door.
Lolita gives Riot a small chin lift in greeting, then glances my way. “You’re gonna want to change.”
I nod quickly, “Meet you out front in ten.”
I rush to my room on the second floor of the clubhouse and quickly strip out of my gear, slipping into more appropriate riding attire. I shimmy on a pair of jeans and yank on a long sleeve tee-shirt over my sports bra, slip into my boots and grab my cut from the back of the chair where I left it. I shrug it on, the leather stiff against my sore shoulders, and catch up with them by our bikes in record time.
The air bites harder than I expected. Early fall in Atlantic City brings a wind that slashes through my leather cut and rattles the sign above the door. A few blocks out, I can see the casino towers stabbing up into the gray sky, glass catching what little sunlight fights through. Down here, paint peels off the row houses, storefront signs sag crooked, asphalt patched in every shade like bad camouflage. This is home. And I’ll do whatever it takes to protect it and the girls scraping to survive on its rough edges.
Cain’s bike growls to life, a deep rumble that shudders through my ribs. Lolita’s hums higher, quick and sharp. I swing a leg over mine, the seat cold under my thighs, and the engine roars on the first try, biting back at the air with heat and power beneath me.
Cain looks over her shoulder, her visor still up. “Let’s move.”
We roll out in a staggered line, engines rumbling through streets littered with damp leaves and windblown trash. Cain keeps us off the main drag at first, weaving through side streets where storefronts are barred and the smell of fried grease seeps from hole-in-the-wall kitchens. Fall here has its own weight, the air is heavy and every building seems like it’s holding on just long enough to make it through another winter.
We cut down Pacific, the wind knifing past sharp enough to sting my eyes. The casinos rise and fall on the horizon, glass and steel catching the early sun, neon flickering to life across the waking Strip. The air humming with energy and promise, a pulse that refuses to let you forget the city is alive, chaotic, and hungry.
Closer to the boardwalk, Gulls wheel overhead, screaming louder than they need to. Thebriny tang of the ocean drifts in on the breeze. Early tourists shuffle along the edge, a few joggers and the scrape of rollerblades cutting through the morning hum. Lolita and Cain ride close, their engines sharp and alive, slicing through the chill. Every shift, every rev presses against me, and I sink into it. My bike and I are one pulse, one threat, one promise. The ocean’s hush underpins it all. I grip the handlebars tighter, letting the city’s heartbeat sync with mine.
We slow by one of the public bulletin boards, a patchwork of faded concert flyers, hand-written apartment rentals, and fresh gym promo posters that weren’t there last week. I spot ours for Steel Roses’s gym with its black background and gold lettering, right in the middle. Cain gives the board a long look, visor stilldown. It’s not the posters she’s interested in. It’s who’s standing there.
I see him too and my stomach tightens. He’s a tall slender guy in a beige hoodie with boxing gloves printed across the back. The red-eyed snake logo on the flyer he’s pinning to the board catches my attention. He slowly turns and then freezes when he spots us. Over his shoulder, a carrier bag hangs wide open, full of more flyers. His eyes lock on ours, a fraction too long. The moment stretches. And then, almost like he realizes he’s been caught, he bolts toward the boardwalk.
We can’t follow him on our bikes, so we ride down the street slow, engines low, eyes sharp. We scan every alley between buildings, every darkened back entrance of a store. He could vanish into the boardwalk for hours, but he has to come back to the street eventually where we will be waiting.
I catch a flash of beige near a corner up ahead, moving fast, trying to blend with the morning crowd. His hood is up now, his hands in pockets, cheap sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk. Alone, but walking like someone who knows where they’re going. My pulse spikes. I nod my head in his direction, my fingers tightening on the grips of my bike. Cain and Lolita mirror my line of sight, and without a word, we tighten our stagger, every eye on the street ahead. Every rev, every vibration from the bikes presses through me, and I know we’re on him.
We don’t speed up. We don’t have to. We’ve all tailed people before. You keep your distance, let them think they’re invisible. The runner turns down a narrow side street. My gut tightens. Streets like this in AC aren’t shortcuts, they’re where you go if you don’t want to be followed.
Cain glances back once. The look in her eyes says stay sharp.
We roll in after him, turning inland away from the sound of the ocean. The air changes instantly, less brine, more exhaust, and the dull metallic tang of the railyard not far off. Thebuildings close in, leaning over cracked sidewalks, their faded facades and rusted fire escapes casting long shadows even in the mid-morning light. The man slips out of sight and we slow past the corner store where the old guy in the Flyers cap always sits, watching everything. He gives the small tilt of his head toward the next block.
Cain’s hand goes up, fist closed. We roll slower now, engines dropping to a murmur and spot him again cutting left between two brick buildings, slipping into an alley so narrow we have to idle single file to follow. The smell of rot, piss, and damp cardboard stacked against the walls hits my nose and I fight back the gag crawling up my throat.
The guy doesn’t look back. That’s how I know he knows we’re here. People who don’t notice keep moving normally. People who notice… start pretending they haven’t.
Cain drops a gear, the soft grind echoing off the brick. Lolita’s behind me, engine purring low. Every sound’s magnified in here, the bikes, the hiss of wind funneling through the gap, the metallic rattle of a loose chain-link fence swaying in the distance.
The runner slips out of sight at the far end. Cain rolls through without hesitating, but the alley spits us into a maze of connected back lots and half-paved lanes. Graffiti climbs every wall, old tags layered over fresh ones, the colors bleeding together. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks once, sharp and short, then nothing.
We catch sight of him again, same hood, same slouched walk, now crossing toward the back of an abandoned diner. The windows are boarded, but the metal door’s ajar, bent where the lock was pried off. Cain pulls up hard beside a rusted dumpster and kills her engine. Lolita and I do the same. The silence afterward is worse than the noise.
We all dismount. My boots land in grit and broken glass. Cain tilts her head toward the door, her voice low. “He’s not just wandering.”
Lolita smirks without humor. “Bet you twenty he’s leading us somewhere he’s got friends.”
“Bet you he’s not walking out at all if it’s a trap,” Cain says.
I check my pockets for my phone, blade, gun and extra mag. My pulse is steady, but my skin’s prickling and I need to be prepared. Dante’s words from earlier press at the back of my skull, Serrano’s reach isn’t a rumor anymore. It’s right here, just inside that door.
