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N O A H

The first drops of rain on the asphalt made the city streets glitter like diamonds.

I could only hear the aggressive rumbling of the engine beneath me, echoed by Marcus's dirt bike following like a shadow from behind.

Someone had already died tonight.

Street racers were out again, and this time they hadn't bothered to be subtle. Wet weather or not, they were too busy pushing the limits on their speedometers instead of worrying about the people they were putting at risk.

It made me sick.

I followed the road with my fingers tense around the handle of my motorcycle. I could see Marcus in my side mirror, scarlet helmet sticking out clearly beneath the street lights. The two of us were building speed fast. Headed straight for the city, it wasn't long before the rain had begun to blanket the two of us in a freezing downpour.

Someone was dead because I'd waited until the last second to do something.

All along, I knew that people were out racing in my streets, breaking my rules, and I didn't act fast enough. There was a reason that I'd banned racing in Boston. I figured if people were going to put me in a place of leadership—for whatever reason that was—then I'd use that position to follow in my father's footsteps. I was going to make a change.

Boston used to be overrun with biker gangs. The kind that used their motorcycles to cover up the fact that they were poisoning the city—distributing drugs, fighting in the streets, mugging and terrorizing innocent people... the list just went on and on.

My old man was a biker long before he was a father. Born and raised in Boston, he and Chief started the Stray Dogs before biker gangs were ever a problem in the city.

But my father was also a devoted soldier. He was on active duty in Iraq for nearly three years—when he finally came home to Boston, he took one look at what his hometown had turned into and was disgusted with what he saw. So he took it upon himself to fix things before he died.

It took him a decade. And it was ugly.

Now Boston was... manageable. Crime rates had collapsed in half in recent years. Violence in the streets was hardly comparable to what it was back in the day. Drugs were still prominent—as they always would be—but at least they weren't consuming the city alive anymore.

One could even call it... peaceful.

So if these street-racers thought they could come in and run wildly of their own accord, then they'd picked the wrong fucking city.

There was a helicopter following behind the street racers, and it was the helicopter I kept my eyes peeled for as I headed down the city streets in an effort to find the bikers.

By the time we'd gotten into the city, it didn't take long to spot it in the dark sky above. Nodding briefly for Marcus to follow, we cut through the traffic and weaved between vehicles fast enough to keep up with the chopper.

It was hard enough to maintain the speed that we were going—the rain was another issue entirely.

It was fucking freezing.

My clothes stuck to every inch of my skin. I could even feel the rain in my socks. It was dripping down my torso and igniting goosebumps throughout my body.

I kept my visor down and sucked in a heavy breath. I just had to keep going.

Marcus hadn't lost me yet. In fact, I was impressed by how well he was keeping up. We were already pushing the limits enough as it was in this weather—any sane person would've chosen to quit long before we'd reached this point.

The two of us finally managed to come across the police vehicles. I'd heard their sirens long before I'd seen the other riders. One of them had gotten caught up in traffic, sirens still blaring as other cars made the attempt to get out of the way. The other patrol car had stopped in the middle of an intersection, trying to mitigate the accident it had just caused with a truck and an old SUV.

Marcus had covered our plates in black spray paint, so we didn't have to worry about getting identified by police. One less problem to deal with.

The two of us passed a destroyed motorcycle, too. The ambulance beside it was flashing red and blue lights. I knew why it was there.

With the roaring of our engines and the speed that we were going, the officers on the road had quickly drawn their attention to us. But before they could process that two other riders had joined the chaos, Marcus and I weaved between their clutches and found ourselves breezing through to the other side. No doubt they had already called it in on their radios.

The helicopter was right above our heads at this point. Going well over a hundred mph, I chose to keep my focus on what was around me in an effort to avoid getting anyone hurt.

I just needed to stop the racers—god knew the police weren't going to be able to.

Finally, I managed to catch a glimpse of a rider up ahead. Dark purple helmet. Suzuki motorcycle without license plates. Mayhem vest. This was the biker that Chief had been talking about.

I spotted Marcus in my side mirror and gestured in the direction of the other riders. He didn't have time to react, though, because the sound of sirens filled the air.

Police motorcycles were behind us, blaring their lights and making an effort to keep up. Marcus swerved in the way as we came upon the next intersection, knowing that if he didn't stop the oncoming traffic, someone would've slammed into the bikes speeding through the roads. Sticking his hand up, I caught the sound of the other cars blowing their horns, trying to get him out of the way. By the time they'd seen the police coming from the right, Marcus had already gotten moving again.

He caught up fast, and as the police continued to follow us blindly, the two of us built up speed. Before long, I could easily spot the two motorcyclists up ahead.

The other was clad in all black. His Ducati was easily handling the challenging speeds at the front of the race, and it didn't have plates on it either. With his helmet and tinted visor concealing the rider's identity, the most I could get on him through the rain was a tiger patch at the back of his jacket.

He wasn't a Stray Dog.

The purple-helmeted biker behind him must have caught us in his mirrors. Signaling to the rider on the Ducati, who turned briefly to catch a glimpse, the two of them kicked up their bikes and decided promptly to get rid of us.

Not that easy.

My mind was swarmed with the sounds overtaking my senses. The whirring of propellers, alerting the helicopter following persistently up above. The haunting sirens filling city streets, inciting urgency deep in my bones. The thunder echoing at the back of my eardrums, seeming to get louder and louder with every passing minute. The voices speaking over megaphones, warning all of us to stop before violence ensued. And the resounding tones of pouring rain.

Doing my best to force block it out, I reminded myself to just keep going.

We were gaining on them. With every passing second, I found myself getting closer and closer to the rider in the purple helmet. I told myself if I could just get one of them, then the other rider would have no choice but to give up the race as well.

By the time we'd gotten onto the freeway, the traffic was clear enough to follow the racers cleanly. Weaving between the occasional car or two, Marcus and I followed quickly and managed to get right at the second rider's heel.

The helicopter, as much as it was a nuisance, was giving us aid with the spotlight it was blaring down onto the road. We were all going too damn fast for our own headlights to keep up—the chopper's spotlight was the only thing illuminating the road ahead of us.

The several minutes we'd been chasing them for felt like hours.

I couldn't understand why they were so persistent—the weather had left all our bikes with minimal grip and near-empty tanks. This couldn't go on much longer.

I hadn't even bothered to check how fast I'd been going. All my focus had been on handling the bike in the rain—it didn't occur to me that I'd finally matched their speed. 160 mph. I almost found it hard to believe.

It was as if the wind could lift me up into the air at any moment. The amount of pressure being forced onto my helmet would be enough to shove me right off the back of the motorcycle—I was holding tight onto the handlebars for a dear life.

Come on, Baby. Come on.

The police weren't far down the road. I counted two police cruisers and three officers on their own motorcycles. They were the more pressing issue at that moment—even if I could get the other racers, the cops would just pull up and arrest us all in one go. We had to lose them.

The racers seemed to know that too. With the way they were weaving between other cars on the road, the police cruisers didn't stand a chance. It wasn't long before we got rid of them in the traffic.

The cops on bikes soon pulled away too. I figured that they'd come to their senses—none of them would dare try and beat us in the rain. Their motorcycles were speed-limited in the first place, and much far below what the four of us were going.

But the helicopter. The helicopter was a problem.

It constantly had eyes following us four. The cops would have no problem tracking us down with that kind of surveillance, cutting us off further up the road and ambushing us.

Truthfully, I didn't know how much further we could go. The tank was already running low. I knew it would be the same for them.

Following them off the freeway at the next exit, I grumbled to myself as they ran a red light and almost collided with the other cars around them. They didn't lose me, though, and as I swerved cleanly through the intersection, I realized that Marcus had fallen behind.

Then I heard the sirens again.

Red and blue lights reflected off the rain, and I suddenly found myself staring right at a cruiser coming up behind us—fast.

The road we were on was totally deserted. There was nothing stopping it from gaining on us.

I forced it out of my thoughts and turned my attention to the other two riders. They were only yards away from me now, constantly leaning and swerving in an effort to get rid of me. I didn't know what they were planning, but at least I'd followed them this far.

Perhaps I'd get lucky and they'd lead me right to where the race had started in the first place.

Marcus—by some miracle—had caught up. Choosing not to waste any more time, he managed to match my speed, riding right at my tail.

The police car was getting closer. Chills crawling up my spine from the freezing cold, I took a look at my surroundings and sucked in a heavy breath, shifting gears on my bike.

Then I saw it.

The railroad.

Yellow lights blared through the rain in my vision, signaling the oncoming train in the distance. I finally understood exactly what was running through the minds of the racers. We had to skip the train.

Fucking shit.

Passing a glance to the police car behind us, then to Marcus, then the two racers, I did my best to calm my nerves and changed gears on the bike again.

Marcus seemed to understand that if he didn't jump it with me, then he'd only be driving away from here in cuffs. I could only hope that the prick didn't get himself killed—he'd managed to do a good job of that so far.

I snapped my focus back to the railroad. It was as if the yellow bars to the tracks were right in front of my face. The train was coming too fast.

The other two bikers handled it almost too easily to believe. Ducking beneath the bars, they leaned slightly on their bikes and managed to get through. Following behind them, I found myself gripping the handlebars with anxiety running rampant through my body.

Holding my breath, adrenaline spiked in my veins as I lowered myself down enough to go beneath the yellow bars. I didn't know if there was a god, but the fact that Marcus and I had passed through the tracks only inches before the train almost made me a believer.

"Jesus fucking shit!" Marcus had yelled from beneath his helmet, loudly enough for me to just make sense of his words through the pouring rain.

I nodded for him to keep going, seeing that the racers had pulled ahead.

The cops were smart enough to bring their bikes screeching to a stop at the other side of the tracks. We'd lost them. The helicopter, on the other hand? Not so much.

There seemed to be nothing but strategy between the two bikers ahead of us though, because they had led us right to the opening of a road tunnel.

Then I realized why'd they'd chosen this specific tunnel: it led right to an airport.

And airports were no-fly zones.

The helicopter wouldn't be able to see us in the tunnel, much less be able to follow us. They'd be completely cut off. Whoever the two riders were, they'd planned all of this beforehand. This was their contingency. A plan-B.

Thank fuck.

I felt nothing but relief as I followed the racers inside, grateful to be out of the pouring wet. The thunder had gotten louder—it was reverberating off the walls in the cement tunnel. But I could finally hear myself think. I didn't have the sounds of the helicopter or the storm dulling my senses.

But just as I thought my job had gotten easier, I had to swerve out of the way of a large pool of rainwater that had gathered on the asphalt.

And another one.

And another one.

It was almost like the rain was soaking right through the damn ceiling, collecting in large puddles on the road.

Suddenly, none of us were prioritizing our speed anymore. We were still going too fast, certainly, but nobody knew how deep the pools of water went. It would be game over if any of us were to run into one.

Marcus had fallen behind again, doing his best to maneuver his dirt bike around the water. I started to wonder if it was the right decision to bring him along.

I had to admire how skilfully the other riders handled their bikes. It was almost an art, the way they neatly swayed side to side in an effort to get through safely. But they were still racing each other—the constant change of lead proved that.

This is it, I realized. While they were preoccupied with the road, I could get catch up enough to cut them off. I just had to avoid the rainwater.

But the sharp squealing of tires that filled the tunnel didn't give me a chance to think it through.

My eyes shot wide open when I caught what happened.

One of the bikers—the one with the purple helmet—hadn't seen a pool of water hiding in the darkness on the road.

I watched in horror as he lost control of his motorcycle, reeling right to the side of the tunnel and falling off the back end. By the time he'd hit the ground, his bike had swiveled up the side of the tunnel from the momentum.

For a split second, I could've sworn it was suspended in mid-air.

But as it hit the ground hard, the motorcycle smashed to pieces on the road. The very sound of its crash echoed through the tunnel. Thunder cracked in the distance. I was holding my breath—praying that the idiot lying in the middle of the street hadn't gotten himself killed.

I gestured with a free hand to Marcus, but he was already on top of it. Pulling to a stop behind the rider, Marcus went to ensure the other rider was okay.

Sucking in a sharp breath, my gaze landed on the other rider.

He was distraught.

I could see it in the way his bike seemed to waver. The other end of the tunnel was coming up fast, but he still hadn't chosen to give up the race.

What the fuck is he doing? I wanted to scream.

Shifting gears, I kicked up speed, ready to track him down. God knew Baby was next to running on fumes, but the thought of letting the guy go hadn't even entered my mind.

It didn't have to—because the rider brought their motorcycle to a screeching halt. Tail-end drifting forward as the bike stopped in the middle of the road, I began to slow as its rider suddenly got off their bike.

Tearing off their helmet, he started stalking right in my direction, forcing me to slow down.

It was... a kid?

He was tall and built with lean muscle, but nowhere near old enough to touch a drink. If I had to a wager a guess, I wouldn't have pinned him as more than nineteen. Despite that, I couldn't help but notice the scar running down the side of his right eye. That, and the spider tattoo spread across the front of his neck.

I brought Baby to an abrupt stop before I could even process that he'd pulled a weapon out from inside his jacket.

Terror coursed through my veins as the scene unfolded before me, the metal in his hands greeting me with a harrowing smile.

A gun.

Panic settled into my core—but it was already too late. With a deafening crack of lightning, the gun went off.

Everything around me came to a stop.

The mind-numbing explosion of his gun echoed through the tunnel, freezing me to my place. It was as if my eardrums had begun to bleed. They were burning with the echo of the gunshot, sending horror rippling through my bones. 

I'd been hit. The bastard had shot me.

I knew I'd been hit—but with all the adrenaline, I couldn't tell where. I couldn't even move.

Instead, a shallow breath left my cold lips while my shifting eyes met with that of the tattooed rider ahead of me. By the time he'd put away his gun, I'd already ingrained his scar and tattoos in my memory.

Having made his point, he got back onto his bike and let the howl of his engine fill the dead air. Setting his helmet back on his head, it wasn't long before he'd turned and sped out of the tunnel.

I couldn't see straight.

The gunshot was still resounding in my eardrums. I couldn't think—all I could picture was my old man's face. And blood.

Blood.

Turning a slow glance down to my body, I saw scarlet blood soaking through the clothes at my lower waist. Having ripped through the clothing, the bullet had torn through the left side of my body.

It had gone cleanly through my side, leaving a deep gash in its wake.

Luckily enough, no bullet-hole. The rider hadn't aimed well enough to strike me right through the torso—just enough to leave an extensive tear in my flesh.

And it burned.

Like fire, it felt as if my skin was being scorched from the inside out. Every part of me wanted to scream, feeling the heat raging like a toxic poison through my skin.

The rumbling of an engine resounded in my ears.

It must have been Marcus—I could see his faint outline carrying the injured Mayhem rider carefully on his dirt bike.

"Edge—Edge, come on," he seemed to say. The words were too blurred to make sense of over the ringing in my ears. "Fuck! The cops are going to be here any second. We have to keep moving."

It was overwhelming. The gunshot in my head. The pain. I just wanted it all to stop. I wanted the grim reaper to stop smiling at me—I wanted him to go away. I just wanted him to leave me alone.

I got rid of you a long time ago.

I hadn't moved from my place. Grazing the blood with my fingertips, the crimson liquid scorched my skin like acid.

"I'm not fucking going to prison because of you!" Marcus's voice yelled. "Get your shit together, for fuck's