A Ride to Remember

For forty-eight hours, the bunker had been a battlefield for Cane. I had watched Cane’s body seize, his muscles rippling in spasms as his natural healing factor fought the serum my father had engineered.

By the second night, the sweating struggle subsided. The swelling in Cane’s chest receded, and the deep lacerations began to heal, leaving behind silver-white scars that looked like lightning bolts engraved into his tan skin.

He sat up on the workbench, his breathing finally deep and rhythmic. He looked like a predator waking from a long, forced hibernation.

"We need to move," Cane said, his voice regaining that low, gravelly authority that made my pulse jump.

"My blood is screaming, Eloise. I can feel the others. It’s like a phantom limb that’s being burned. They’re in pain."

I stood before him, no longer the girl of riches, but a woman in heavy leather and with deadly skills. I handed him a reinforced riding jacket Viper had pulled from his stash.

"We’re going," I said, checking the action on my 9mm.

"But we aren't taking the tunnels yet. These bikes need a high-speed shake-down. I need to know the Ghost won't fall apart at a hundred miles an hour, and you need to see if your lungs can handle the wind before we risk the tight turns of the Veins."

Cane looked at me, really looked at me, the broken nails, the smudge of oil on my cheek, the way I held the weapon. A flicker of something passed over his face. Respect?

"Where’s Vane?" he asked, his voice softening.

I looked away, the memory of Vane’s parting words stinging like a fresh cut.

"He left, Cane. He couldn't stay. He thinks I’m the reason Jax is gone. He thinks my name is a curse on this pack."

Cane stood up, his height dwarfing me in the cramped bunker. He placed a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder.

"Vane is the heart of this pack, Eloise. But the heart is the first thing to bleed when you're hurt. He’s blinded by the loss. He’s out there somewhere, hunting in the dark, but he’s alone. Without an Alpha, Vane is just a stray. We have to find the others to bring him back."

We emerged from the shipyard at midnight. Cane was on the Wraith, and I was on The Ghost, the lightweight frame Jax had started.

We hit the asphalt, and for the first time in days, I felt the salt air of the Atlantic. The speed was a drug. I looked to my left, and there was Cane, his hair whipping in the wind, his eyes focused on the horizon.

Then, the blue and red strobes shattered the darkness.

A siren wailed behind us, sharp and demanding. A lone cruiser had spotted us weaving through the midnight traffic. My heart sped up.

Should I stop? The thought flashed through my mind like a warning light.

Cane looked at me, his eyes glowing amber behind his visor. He didn't speak, but he revved the Wraith, the engine letting out a thunderous roar that challenged the siren.

I dropped two gears and pinned the throttle. The Ghost shrieked, the front wheel lifting inches off the ground as I roared past the cruiser.

"Dispatch, we have two bikes in a high-speed pursuit heading North on Biscayne," the cop’s voice crackled over the radio waves as we left him in a cloud of exhaust.

The lone cruiser was joined by two more. We pushed into the heart of downtown, weaving through the late-night traffic with inches to spare.

"Split up!" Cane’s voice crackled over the comms Viper had installed in my helmet.

I steered right, banking the Ghost so low my knee scraped the pavement. I dove into a narrow alleyway, the walls closing in. A cruiser tried to follow, but the alley was too narrow for the car. I heard the crunch of its fenders scraping against the brick, followed by the pop of a tire.

I emerged on the other side, skidding onto a side street, only to see the blue and red lights already waiting. They were coordinated.

"They’re boxing us in, Cane!" I shouted.

"Head for the MacArthur Causeway! Go!"

I pushed the Ghost to its limit. The wind felt like it was trying to tear me off the bike, my muscles screaming as I fought to keep the front end down. I saw the Wraith leap over a concrete barrier, Cane moving with a grace that shouldn't have been possible for a man who was nearly dead two days ago.

We met at the entrance to the causeway, the open water of the bay on either side of us. Behind us, six cruisers were in a V-formation, their headlights blinding in our mirrors.

Then came the thrumming.

A police helicopter descended from the clouds, its massive spotlight sweeping the bridge.

"Not today," I hissed.

I saw a gap between two moving semi-trucks. I didn't think; I acted. I leaned the bike hard, sliding through the narrow space as the wind from the trucks' tires threatened to pull me under. Cane followed, the Wraith’s heavy frame vibrating the air.

The cruisers were forced to brake, their sirens fading for a moment as they navigated the traffic. But the helicopter was still there. It was a persistent shadow, its light pinned to our backs.

"Cane, we can't outrun it!"

"We don't have to outrun it," Cane replied, his voice calm.

"We just have to go where it can't follow."

Up ahead was the massive construction site, a half-finished structure of steel and glass.

Cane turned sharply toward the service entrance, a dirt track littered with heavy machinery. I followed, the Ghost’s suspension groaning as we hit the uneven ground. The helicopter swung around.

"Suspects entering a building site!" the pilot shouted.

Cane didn't stop at the perimeter. He headed straight for a massive concrete ramp that led into the foundations. It was marked Danger: Unstable Ground - Authorized Personnel Only.

We dove into the darkness just as the chopper’s light hit the entrance. Behind us, we heard the screech of tires as the cruisers reached the dirt lot, but they stopped. The cruisers couldn't handle the pitch; the officers didn't have the clearance or the courage to dive into a black hole of unmapped construction tunnels.

To the world above, we had simply vanished.