We swung our legs over in a practiced chorus. Engines rolled over, coughing to life one after another.
I slid my helmet on, visor up for now, the world going slightly muffled as the padding closed around my ears.
Jersey’s bike moved to the front. Mine drifted up beside his until our knees almost brushed.
He glanced over, visor still up too. His eyes met mine through the dim yard light.
“Safe space,” he said quietly, just for me.
It landed somewhere under my ribs and stayed there.
“Then don’t get it shot up,” I replied.
He huffed a breath that might’ve accompanied a smile.
The gate groaned open in front of us. The strip glittered faint in the distance, a jagged line of electric promise over darker streets.
We then rolled out.
***
Atlantic City always looked better at night from a distance.
Up close, you could smell the rot. Salt and spilled beer and piss in alleyways. Old grease. Old money. Olddreams. Tonight, it also smelled like something electric was waiting.
We took back streets until we hit the boards. The bikes dropped to a slower, more controlled rumble as we rolled up the ramp, engines echoing off the buildings on either side. Lights from the casinos hit us in waves—neon, LEDs, animated screens shouting at anyone with a wallet and a death wish.
The boardwalk itself was quieter on this stretch. Off-season. Weeknight. The closer we got to the far end, the less foot traffic there was. A few couples out walking. A drunk or two weaving along. A small knot of kids in hoodies who stopped talking when we passed and watched us with that mix of awe and wariness.
Ahead, Roman’s new build rose up out of the boards like somebody had planted a glass and concrete tree and told it to hurry.
Glass curtain walls caught the neon from its distant neighbors, throwing back fractured colors. The lower levels were wrapped in temporary fencing and branded banners showing smooth digital renderings of what it would be when it was done—smiling couples at roulette tables, families by a rooftop pool, some actress pretending she ate burgers at three in the morning.
Above that, floors stacked up into the dark, some lit, some not. The structure’s edges were sharp enough to cut the sky.
We rolled to a stop a half-block fromthe boardwalk entrance.
The construction site was supposed to be alive even this late. Crews finishing their shifts. Security guards leaning in doorways. Delivery trucks coming and going. There should’ve been noise. Light. Life.
There wasn’t.
The gate on the boardwalk side stood half-open, metal chain looped through but not actually locked. A plastic “SITE CLOSED” sign hung crooked, the corners flapping idly in the breeze coming off the ocean.
There was no guard at the little glass security booth to the left. The chair inside sat empty. A coffee cup lay on its side on the counter, slowly dripping onto a stack of paperwork. The monitors on the wall behind it showed static and blue screens.
“Miami,” Jersey said into his mic. “Talk to me.”
There was a crackle, then Miami’s voice came through our earpieces, low and threaded with static.
“You’re pretty clear on the boardwalk side,” he said. “I’ve got street cams.”
A minute of silence, then Miami again. “Roman’s guy just pushed the feed through,” he said. “I’m seeing… main lobby cams offline. That security booth you’re near is dark on my end too. Everything else seems disabled.”
“So, you don’t see anybody?” I asked.
“Wait, I’ve got movement on… no,” Miami said. “That’s a loop. They’re running a loop on one of the other cameras. Time stamp’s an hour off. Somebody rerouted it to cover whatever they just did.”
“Of course they did,” Spade muttered.
