From up front, Jace snaps, “Let’s go. The clock’s already ticking.”
We climb on.
No backing out now.
I wrap my arms around Max’s waist.
“Hang on.” His voice comes through my comms.
The night air rushes against my skin, whipping strands of hair loose from the tie at the base of my neck. We crouch behind a ridge of outcropped rocks overlooking the black stretch of desert road that cuts through the hills like a scar.
Below us, the convoy begins to appear — three matte-black transport trucks surrounded by two unmarked SUVs. The vehicles move fast but not recklessly. The Guild’s intel was right. This route is lightly patrolled and distant from major cities. No one is supposed to know what’s moving through here.
But we do.
“On my mark,” Jace murmurs beside me, voice crisp in my ear through the comms. “Riders first.”
“Copy,” I whisper back, fingers curling in the sleek black gloves Lucian gave me from the armory. The high-tech friction coating should help with grip when I make the jump.
We’re mounted on three slim bikes, engines muffled to near-silence, painted to vanish into the shadows. We wear black Guild suits woven withnanofiber — skintight, flexible, designed to repel minor damage and boost stealth. Noah sits in the unmarked van, ready to go.
“Initiating in three… two… one.”
The wind rips across my helmet as we speed along the canyon road. Silent shadows trailing the convoy of matte-black transport trucks. They move like beasts with metal skin—three long-bodied haulers, armored and unmarked, with a rear-guard van tailing just far enough back to shoot without question.
“Get ready to jump.” Max instructs.
I lick my lips, heart pounding as I steal a glance ahead. The others peel off, one by one. Jace vaults first, like he’s born for it—precise, effortless. Tex vaults next off Derek’s bike. Luca salutes before jumping off Preston's bike, and in that moment, the sick thrill hits my gut.
It’s now or never.
Max pulls up close. I rise up, bend my knees, and jump.
Free fall. For half a heartbeat, the world is air and speed and adrenaline.
Then my boots slam into cold steel, my fingers grab the ladder bar just in time to avoid being thrown. I haul myself up and onto the roof of the truck—just in time to see Luca locked in a brutal fight.
One of the guards has climbed up through a hatch. Dressed in matte-black armor, he slashes at Luca with a hooked blade. Sparks fly as steel clashes. Luca ducks and spins with liquid grace, his dagger flashing.
But a second man is climbing out behind him. I see the blade and where it’s aimed.
“Luca!” I shout.
He turns a second too late. I don’t think. Just run.
My boots pound across the truck roof as I launch myself toward the second guard, tackling him at full speed. We go down hard, rolling toward the edge. His elbow cracks into my ribs, but I shove back, desperate. My hand finds his throat and I drive my elbow into it again. He sputters, clawing at me.
We hit the edge—my boot slipping on the smooth metal. He twists, trying to take me with him. I wind and shove, hard. He falls.
His screams are devoured by the wind.
I scramble away from the ledge, my chest heaving, blood in my mouth. The truck still roars beneath me, moving like a monster on rails. When I look up, Luca is staring at me—one hand clutched over his shoulder where blood seeps through his fingers.
I stumble over. “Are you okay?”
His face is unreadable for a moment—eyes wide, lips parted like he doesn’t know what to say. Then he gives a crooked, blood-soaked smile.
“You—you tackled a guy off a moving truck,” he says.
