“Sure.”
The bike felt good under me. Responsive and powerful, purring like a threat when I opened it up. I spent the afternoon riding through Chicago, relearning streets I used to know, letting the cold air and movement settle me.
The city looked different during the day. Less hostile. Just familiar and worn, buildings I recognized mixed with new construction that made everything feel slightly off. I rode through Pilsen, past murals I'd seen as a kid. I went through Hyde Park where the university sprawled and down Lake Shore Drive with the water gray and choppy beside me.
Old snow was piled at the curbs, gray and crusted with exhaust, melting into slush that sprayed up from car tires. The roads were mostly clear but slick in patches where ice had refrozen overnight, black and invisible until you were on it. I kept my speed reasonable, tested the bike's grip on turns, and learned how it handled on wet pavement.
By the time the sun started dropping, I'd put enough miles on the bike that my hands were cold even in the gloves and myass was sore from the seat. But I felt better. Clearer. Like maybe I could go back to Declan's house and not make an ass of myself.
I headed back north as the light faded, weaving through traffic that had thickened with the evening rush. The streets were busier here with more cars, more noise, more of everything that made Chicago feel alive. Flurries had started falling, light and lazy, barely sticking to the pavement but enough to catch in headlights and make visibility worse.
That's when I noticed the tail.
A black sedan was three cars back, staying too steady, matching my speed too precisely when I changed lanes. Could be coincidence. Could be paranoia from years of Sentinel work making me see threats that weren't there.
I tested it. I took a random turn down a side street. The sedan followed.
This was intentional, not coincidence.
I opened the throttle and weaved between cars, putting distance between us. The sedan kept pace, the driver clearly skilled, not losing me even when I pushed through yellows and cut across lanes.
I needed to lose them or confront them, and losing seemed smarter when I didn't know how many were in the car or what they wanted.
I took another turn, harder this time, leaning into it until my knee almost scraped pavement. The bike handled it beautifully. The sedan fell back slightly, hampered by traffic.
I could work with that.
I pushed harder, opening up the engine, letting the bike do what it was built for. Speed and power, the acceleration that left cars behind and made the world blur. The road was slick under my tires, patches of black ice hidden in shadows, but I'd spent years on bikes in worse conditions. I knew how to read pavement, how to feel when traction started slipping.
The sedan tried to keep up and failed. I watched it fall back in my mirrors, satisfaction cutting through the adrenaline.
Then a motorcycle pulled out of a side street ahead of me.
Not just any bike. A sport bike, blacked out, the rider dressed in dark gear that made them hard to see in the fading light. They fell in behind me smoothly, matching my speed without effort.
I needed off this street. I needed somewhere with witnesses, lights, people who'd notice if things went bad.
I took a hard left down an alley, narrow and lined with dumpsters. Risky as hell on a bike, but the tight space would make the car useless.
The motorcycle followed. Of course it did.
The alley opened onto a side street. I shot through, barely slowing, and the other rider was right there. Closer now. Close enough that I could see they were bigger than me, broader, moving with easy control that came from experience.
They pulled alongside and reached out. They grabbed my handlebar.
The bike wobbled. I yanked it back and swerved hard, but they'd already done the damage. Thrown off my balance just enough that I had to slow down or risk eating pavement.
I slowed. They didn't.
They came at me from the side, forcing me toward the curb. I tried to accelerate out of it but they were faster, better, reading my moves before I made them.
We ended up stopped. Both bikes were idling in an empty loading zone behind some warehouse, light fading fast, nobody around. Snow was falling harder now, fat flakes that melted on my jacket and stuck to the ground.
The rider dismounted smooth and fast. They pulled off their helmet.
A mask was underneath. Black fabric covering everything from the nose down, only their eyes visible. Dark and coldand completely unreadable. The setup said this wasn't about intimidation. This was about staying anonymous while they finished the job.
This was not fucking good.
