Mask Rider Bike Novels & Stories

His head tilted slightly, tracking sounds the rest of us couldn't hear. There were six other riders. Seven total. I recognized Marc on the black bike, he was decent, played fair. But then there was Vic on the red bike, and my stomach dropped. Cole on the yellow. Jensen with the scar across his jaw. Three others I didn't know, but they had that look. That hungry, desperate look of riders who'd do anything to win. "That's a lot of competition," Sarah said quietly. "They're not competition," Orion said, and I heard the pride in his voice. "They're just in the way."

John didn’t hesitate to shoot the next vehicle. Raymond watched the second vehicle lose balance, tumbling forward until it triggered fire, blasting to the sky. His jaw slacked. “Ah. I can see why you were the best hunter,” he mumbled as he looked down to John, who still stared ahead. “There are still more,” he mumbled. Engines echoed far ahead, then several dirt bikes burst into view. The riders wore black with masks, eye goggles, guns in hand, looking like terrorists. Gunshots rippled to the sky; Alex and Raymond slammed the door shut, blocking incoming bullets.

he said, firmly as his thoughts to expose the masquerade hiding in the mask of the honourable detective. Andre knew the silence inside of him wasn't good, he was seated in a borrowed—stolen—car, with a lady he couldn't understand. She was a combination of fierce and beautiful. Toxic—he always thought such combination was toxic and his nerves screamed but he couldn't help but smile at her sleeping body beside him. His daughter? What part of the conversation that he did not get. His daughter. He glanced at her again. There was no resemblance of him in her. How could a child of a monster be so fine? He struggled to keep his head arranged, struggled to keep his mind from the kiss. Shit Dre, Shit

But as Dax leaned me back against the cabin’s cedar siding, his hand sliding up to tangle in my hair, the Norton’s alarm chirped a sharp, discordant note that shattered the moment. The sapphire light of the Engine began to flicker, turning a violent, aggressive red. "Dax," I panted, pulling back. "Something is pinging the frequency." From the tree line of the fiber-optic pines, a single rider emerged. This wasn't an Aegis drone or a federal agent. The bike was a raw, skeletal thing a stripped-down streetfighter that looked like it had been built from the wreckage of a dozen different machines. The rider wore a vest I didn't recognize: a snarling wolf's head, but with its eyes stitched shut i

A black shape drifts around the corner of the alley, tires screeching on the wet pavement. The bike is massive. A beast of matte black steel. The rider doesn't slow down. He accelerates toward the Reapers blocking the exit. They scramble, diving off their bikes as the black Harley plows through them. Metal screeches against metal. Sparks shower the alley like fireworks. The rider skids to a halt ten feet from me. He plants a boot on the ground, stabilizing the bike. Drakon. He’s not wearing a helmet. His dark hair is plastered to his skull. His face is a mask of pure, concentrated violence.

"Baby, you're assuming we'll let you get ahead." "Let me?" I turn the key. The engine roars to life—thunder trapped in chrome and muscle. The bike vibrates beneath me, eager and alive, and I feel it everywhere. "You don't let me do anything, River. You follow. Or you get left behind." Cade laughs, the sound rich with challenge. "Big talk for someone who hasn't seen what we're riding." That's when I notice them—two more bikes in the shadows of the garage. A matte black Dyna Wide Glide with aggressive forward controls that screams dominance. And a sleek Street Glide with custom paint that matches River's wolf in shifted form, all silver and smoke.

' expression written all over it. The commuter motorbike with a matte-blsck body and red details looked a bit worn out which gave it a sense of ruggedity. But it stood reliably underneath Darren as it seemed balanced by the black rich tires that perched on the ground, making the motorbike look as sturdy as ever. It's headlight seemed weary just as the rear-rack that had amassed quite the few dirt over the years. The motorbike also had a small, smoked-glass windshield atop the handlebars which Kyley thought was quite cute.

“Is this the welcome committee?” “This is the peanut gallery,” Ryder muttered. “Ignore them.” I realised he had employed more guys from the Hellfire MC. That was good. At least, they'd get a salary every month. Ryder led me past the garage toward the showroom, where the polished bikes stood like art pieces. I caught sight of TB... the Tessa Bishop bike... from last week, front and center behind the glass partition. “She’s a showstopper,” I whispered. “She’s not the only one,” Ryder said, nudging me gently.

His jaw tightened, but his eyes softened just a fraction. He didn't make empty promises. He didn't tell me everything was going to be fine. Instead, he turned and dragged me by the hand toward the mouth of the alley. Parked under the dim streetlamp sat a massive, matte-black motorcycle. It looked like a beast resting in the dark, heavy and custom-built, the Iron Fang symbol painted subtly across the gas tank. The night air bit at my cheeks, but my blood was burning with pure terror. Zane stepped up to the machine, swung his long leg over the seat, and brought the engine to life.

Why? My eyes widened in surprise as I followed her. When we reached the bike, I saw it was a sleek, shiny motorcycle. “Gorgeous bike. What’s its name?” I asked, impressed. “Triumph Speed 400,” Ray replied, sitting down and putting on her black sunglasses with a confident smile. “Helmet?” I asked, feeling a little anxious. Ray looked at me for a few moments before replying, “I don’t have a helmet.” Her deadpan expression didn’t reassure me at all.