I climb into the sidecar with another curse, folding myself into it with all the grace of a man being punished by the universe.
“I feel like a fucking empanada,” I half yell, half growl.
Saint laughs, wild and bright, and guns the engine.
We tear off across the tarmac, alarms screaming, engines roaring, and behind us, a pack of hunters finally realize their prey has stolen their leader’s bike. And it seems they are quite pissed about it.
* “Son of a bitch.”
Finding a specific plane on an active runway turns out to be a real scavenger hunt when the airport is the size of a small city and apparently no one told ground control that there was just a bloodbath involving fried rice in Terminal F. Jets are still taxiing like everything is fine, like today’s crisis is a delayed latte instead of multiple bodies and a motorcycle gang with artillery.
I gun the Harley anyway.
The tires squeal, the tail slides and I nearly lose control.Huh, not bad.
This bike is definitely not stock. Seems baldy did some upgrades that may come in handy for our escape. Hopefully this bike is faster than the gang coming for us.
The motorcycle club comes in hot behind us, engines snarling, spreading out like they’ve done this before, which is not surprising. I weave us through service lanes and fuel trucks, eyes scanning tails and numbers, counting under my breath until I spot it. There. The Emirates bird, already rolling, plane number stamped clean and pretty on the tail like it isn’t about to become my problem.
Gunshots crack behind us, sharp and angry, and I lean hard into the turn, swinging the bike around a plane being pushed back by a tractor just as something heavy whistles past my ear.
The stupid braids of this annoying wig flicking in my face as I move.
“Holy shit,” Alejandro yells from the sidecar, bracing himself. “They’ve got some pretty big firepower!”
Something detonates behind us, close enough that I feel it in my teeth. The tractor driver dives clear just in time before the blast hits, fire blooming outward as the vehicle explodes into a spectacular mess of metal and flame.
“Do they have a fucking cannon?” I shout.
“Pretty much,” he yells back.
He twists in the sidecar and fires, controlled and calm despite the chaos, and I catch a glimpse of one of the bikes lying flat as it skids across the tarmac in a spray of sparks. The rider doesn’t move.
The unmanned plane keeps rolling, unguided now, until glass shatters and metal screams as it plows straight into the terminal windows. The sound is catastrophic. Shouting erupts instantly, and like ants to sugar, assassins swarm the breach, smashing out the remaining glass with chairs and trash cans, clawing their way out of the building to get their piece of the bounty. One gets shoved too hard and lands wrong, leg snapping with a sound I feel rather than hear.
I don’t spare them another glance.
The terminal can eat itself alive for all I care.
I only need one thing and it’s to get on that fucking plane.
Runways blur together when you’re moving this fast,white lines and blinking lights streaking past as I push the Harley harder. The Emirates plane is still ahead of us, lumbering and massive, beginning its slow, arrogant turn like it has all the time in the world.
We do not. And I need to figure out how the fuck we’re getting on it.
Behind us, the motorcycle club fans out, engines howling, the sound vibrating up my spine. They’re good. Aggressive. Sloppy in that confident way that comes from numbers and testosterone. I weave anyway, cutting sharp around ground vehicles and painted markers, trusting instinct more than sight.
Alejandro shifts in the sidecar, all six-foot-six of him wedged into a space meant for maybe a golden retriever and a dream.
“This is undignified,” he shouts over the wind.
“You look adorable,” I call back. “Really sells the exile sniper vibe.”
Gunfire snaps past us. One round pings off metal close enough that I feel it through the handlebars. I jerk the bike sideways and clip a rider who got too close, my saddlebag slamming into his front tire. He goes down hard, bike flipping end over end before skidding across the runway in a shower of sparks.
Alejandro twists around, braced awkwardly, and fires with maddening calm. One biker drops. Then another. Precision work, even from a sidecar, which honestly feels unfair.
I think, fleetingly, about my original plan. About slipping away. About leaving him behind so I could get ahead of this, think,breathe, survive.
