> Outcome: control overridden.
> Security Patch: unavailable.
My boots echooff the parking garage as I approach the matte black Ducati Streetfighter V4S in the space where I left it. Out of habit, I do a quick once over, making sure it hasn’t been fucked with, because in my line of work, you never know.
Security in this building is tight, and with the four extra guards outside, it’s unlikely anyone would get in. But I can’t quell the unsettling feeling in my gut that something doesn’t feel right. There isn’t a rival stupid enough to attack our men without a clear purpose.
Someone wants us there. Angelo knew it too, judging by his directive to wait and not go alone. The problem is, I’ve never been very good at taking orders. And if there’s a threat, I’d rather neutralize it myself than put my brothers at risk.
I mount the bike, the seat dipping under my weight as I settle in. The engine roars to life with a guttural snarl, and I shift into gear, gliding forward as I ease off the clutch. Within seconds, I’m out in the open air, a streak of red taillights in the dark of night.
The world around me fades to static as I fly over the asphalt, the wind whipping past me as the vibrations rattle up my spine and into my teeth. I lean into the speed, eating up the distance.
There was a time after the lightning strike that I swore this was the only thing that could make me feel alive. That was before I knew what it felt like to be with Gabi.
To be inside her.
It’s a familiar rush—a thundering pulse beneath my ribs. A need that only grows in its intensity the longer I spend with her. The more distance I put between us, the more I feel that compulsion to go back.
It’s becoming a problem, and more importantly, a distraction.
As I slow my speed and pass through the chain-link gate at the docks, I’m so deep inside my head, it’s hard to focus. I scan the shipping containers as I pass them by before I glance up ahead. A group of our men are hovering near an unfamiliar passenger van, their postures tense.
One of them gestures at me at the same time I reach for the gun in my shoulder holster. I barely register the crack that splits the air before the shot punches through my back tire.
The bike fishtails, and my boot grinds into the asphalt as I start to tip. With the few seconds that I have before inevitable chaos, I lean into it, using my weight to try to lay it down and blunt the impact.
I shift my weight back and release the handlebars, barely clearing my leg as gravity and momentum free me from the screeching metal beast. My body surfs across the pavement, sparks flying beside me as the bike drags to a stop.
The world around me blurs as my skull vibrates, and heat sears my leg. I draw in a breath, my ribs aching as the smell of burning asphalt and oil fills my lungs. For a moment, static fills the helmet as I lie there, fighting through the pain.
In the distance, I can hear doors opening and boots slapping against the pavement.
A familiar hum rattles through my brain as another surge of adrenaline floods my veins, and I stagger to my feet. I rip off my helmet, tossing it to the ground as my heart accelerates and my vision tunnels.
The predator inside me flips the switch and hijacks my body, synapses firing as a singular thought blares through my mind.
Neutralize.
I stalk across the pavement, detached from the pain in my physical body as I reach the first threat.
The beast is at the controls, punching buttons as I follow commands like a faithful servant.
Knife.
Stab.
Toss.
Next.
The men in front of me scatter like cockroaches as I reach a new target.
Choke.
Stomp.
Execute.
