My boots strike concrete in measured strides. Talia matches my pace perfectly, her breathing controlled despite the sprint. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.
Van doors slide open behind us.
The sound echoes off concrete like rolling thunder. I drop to my knees beside the Ducati, fingers finding the ignition wires by muscle memory. Behind us, boots hit pavement—multiple contacts. They’re not even trying to be quiet.
Confident. Cocky.
Their mistake.
“Down!”
I spin, drawing my Glock in one smooth motion. Talia drops behind the pillar. Good girl.
Four shooters fan out in a semi-circle. Professional spacing, overlapping fields of fire. They’re trying to herd us toward the northeast corner. Death box. Too obvious. These aren’t Phoenix’s best.
I put two rounds through the nearest van’s front tire. The vehicle lists to the side with a violent hiss. The shooters adjust their position. I calculate angles. Distance. Cover points.
“The electrical panel,” Talia whispers beside me. “If you?—”
Already tracking it. Twenty feet to our right, the main breaker is exposed. Three shots to the box, and half this garage goes dark. I fire. Sparks explode in a shower of white-hot metal. Emergency lighting kicks in, bathing everything in stuttering red.
Their night vision needs at least thirty seconds to adjust. We need five.
“Move.”
Two twists of the wires and the engine roars to life, the sound echoing off concrete walls.
“Get on.”
She swings her leg over without hesitation. I hand her the go-bag and mount in front of her. She shoulders the bag, and wraps her arms around my waist, her grip tight and sure. She leans against my back. Her thighs bracket mine.
More shooters emerge from cover. I draw with my left hand, keeping my right on the throttle. The Glock barks twice—suppressing fire, forcing them back.
Then I see a fifth shooter, in an elevated position on the parking structure’s second level. Rifle trained on us.
There’s no time to think.
I rise slightly, making myself a larger target to shield Talia, and fire three rounds at his position. He ducks, but not before his weapon cracks.
The bullet punches into my left bicep like a sledgehammer wrapped in fire. It lodges deep in the muscle, grinding against bone. My arm spasms. The Glock almost slips from nerveless fingers, but I manage to holster it.
Don’t flinch. Don’t slow. Don’t let her know.
I gun the engine. We tear out of the garage, tires screaming against concrete. The bike slides slightly on the turn—too much speed, not enough grip—but I correct with my body weight. Talia moves with me instinctively, leaning into the turn rather than fighting it.
Her grip is perfect—firm but not panicked, moving with the bike instead of against it.
I check the mirrors. There’s a black van two cars back, trying to navigate traffic. Another joins from a side street.
“Your phone,” I shout over the engine. “Toss it.”
She doesn’t question me. One arm releases briefly, quick movement, then her phone disappears into the bed of a passing garbage truck. Her arm immediately returns to my waist.
Her hand comes away wet.
“You’re bleeding.” Not a question. Her fingers find the tear in my jacket, the warm wetness spreading beneath.
“I’m fine. Hold on.”
