Aces And Eights Motorcycle Ride Novels & Stories

Ryder POV The roar of six motorcycles echoes through the mountain pass as we approach Nightshade territory. Jolie rides behind me, her arms wrapped around my waist, silver light barely contained beneath her skin. I feel her tension through our bond—not fear exactly, but anticipation. Like a warrior preparing for battle. Luna and Knox ride to our left, Cass and Phoenix to our right. We form a tight formation, pack colors visible on every jacket. Iron Fangs in bold silver lettering, wolf symbols stitched across our shoulders and backs.

The crowd fell silent except for the rumble of engines, everyone holding their breath for the moment that would start everything. "Three!" she shouted. My heart pounded against my ribs like a caged animal. "Two!" I stole one last glance at Paxton, memorizing the sight of him before I left him in my dust. "One!" The flag came down like a falling guillotine. "GO!" I shot forward like a bullet from a gun, my Kawasaki responding instantly to my command. The world around me became a blur of lights and motion as eight motorcycles launched themselves into the night. Here we go.

RED INK EP 28: Disposition • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • ~~~~ Fred's point of view~~~ His motorcycle was a tough zandor 880 with over 1000cc and could travel sixty miles per hour. He chose this cruiser because it was light weight and was very practical. The lamps in front of it were dim because he made it so. His eyes needed to do the seeing and any light could put his target on watch.

Then she turns, mounts her motorcycle, and disappears into the racing sea of silver insignias. The echoes of the engines roll across the valley. And somewhere beyond the dark ridge ahead, another convoy answers them. Louder and closer. Coming straight for us.

Caitlin held on tightly to Caleb as he tore through the countryside on the roaring motorcycle, twisting and turning, leaning so far she nearly thought they would fall. His motorcycle skills were about as terrifying as his plane flying. He twisted the throttle, making the engine roar, pushing it ever faster. “So how the hell do you propose we get to Egypt?” he cried over his shoulder, his voice swallowed by the wind.

Kyle asked which just increased the giggling. "Seriously, what do you ride?" Charlize asked. He saw she was interested so he answered. "It's a 1988 Harley Davidson Heritage Softail Classic." She nodded. "A cruiser. Nice. I just got myself a Yamaha YZF‑R1 Supersport." "Get any tickets yet?" Kyle asked and she grinned but shook her head. "Not exactly a comfortable ride for passengers on your bike," he suggested. "Wait, you can take a second rider on that rocket of yours?" Monique said, turning to her friend in surprise.

Magnus replied tersely. He led me outside and did not look back. We headed straight for the lined-up motorcycles and pressed the button on the keychain. One of the bikes started to sound—a Kawasaki KLX-150, white with a high frame. Alfonso smiled at that moment, seeming to really enjoy it. "Alright, Mikaela, let’s go! It’s a new day for us!" He revved the handgrip of the motorcycle as if he was thrilled by the bike. I quickly hopped on and sat behind him, wrapping my arms tightly around him and spoke. "Ready..." I smiled.

It was the heart of our caravan, and every rider in the pack knew they were effectively human shields for the technology it carried. Dax rode at the head, his customized Harley-Davidson Road Glide cutting through the wind like the prow of a ship. His left arm was still bound, but he handled the heavy machine with a terrifying, one-handed grace that left no doubt as to who held the gavel. I rode directly behind him, my eyes scanning the overpasses and the tree lines. The note from the workshop was tucked into the pocket of my jacket, the ink-drawn map of the Daytona fuel bunkers etched into my brain.

She braced her elbows against her ribs, forcing the heavy steel frame to stay in the center of the lane. "Vivienne, look back," Dominic rasped from the rear seat. I leaned my head out of the broken passenger window, the freezing air cutting my face. A mile down the straight stretch of the river road, two black shapes had just burst through the fog. They weren't trucks. They were black tactical motorcycles, moving at twice our speed, their engines whining like angry hornets. The riders wore the same dark goggles and long black coats as the men in the gorge. They were closing the gap fast.

Please. If heartbreak could kill me, it would’ve done it years ago. Kael Draven might’ve rejected me, but he didn’t get to erase me. Not when I was finally starting to feel real. But none of that mattered the next morning — not when they came back. I was halfway through repairing the damn engine I’d set on fire when the rumble of motorcycles cut through the air. Low, deep. Not the usual local drunks or weekend riders. These were pack bikes. Military style. Matte black.