Chapter 27 Chapter twenty seven
The scream of metal grinding against metal drowned out the roar of the fire consuming the hangar below. My shoulder slammed into Elena’s as our bikes locked together, a tangle of silver and white frames hurtling toward the jagged edge of the unfinished bridge. The safety railing was a distant memory, replaced by a terrifying drop into the industrial ruins of the backlot. I could see the red dust of the earth rising to meet us, a thirsty desert waiting for a crash.
"You’re going to kill us both!" Elena’s voice was a jagged edge in my ear, distorted by the wind and the proximity of our helmets.
"I’m ending the cycle!" I roared back.
I twisted the handlebars, forcing the Norton’s weight into her turbine-assist housing. The high-pitched whistle of her engine turned into a sickening mechanical grind. I felt the vibration through my boots a frantic, dying pulse. We were inches from the drop when I slammed on my rear brake, the Norton’s specialized variable-compression valves venting a burst of pressure that acted like a physical kick.
The bikes tore apart. Elena’s prototype, its stabilization gyros fried by the impact, skidded toward the precipice. She laid the bike down, her white leathers throwing sparks against the asphalt as she slid to the very brink of the five-story fall. Her front tire hung over the abyss, spinning uselessly in the humid air.
I brought the Norton to a halt in a cloud of acrid smoke, the engine idling with a low, predatory growl. I didn't wait for the dust to settle. I dismounted, my boots heavy on the cracked pavement of the replica bridge, and pulled my helmet off. The heat of the studio was a physical weight, but the fire from the hangar Dax’s fire was a beacon of cold justice.
"It’s over," I said, the word feeling foreign and bitter on my tongue. "The servers are gone. The Wolves are at the gate. There is no more data to sell."
Elena pushed herself up, her white leathers stained with red dirt and oil. She didn't look like a Queen anymore. She looked like a ghost that had finally run out of places to haunt. She looked toward the burning hangar, then back at me, a slow, terrifying smile spreading across her lips.
"You think Dax Steele is the only one who knows how to plant a charge?" she whispered.
My blood turned to ice. I looked down at the bridge supports. Hidden beneath the faux-concrete pillars were the same high-intensity thermite packs I’d seen in the Daytona bunkers. This bridge wasn't just a set for a movie; it was a giant, elevated execution platform.
"He’s in the lab, Mia," she said, her voice dropping to a silken, lethal purr. "And the lab is connected to the bridge’s structural mainframe. If you want to save him, you have to choose. The Engine, or the President."
She held up a small, black remote the master trigger.
A sudden, sharp crack of a rifle echoed from the towers. A bullet struck the asphalt inches from Elena’s hand, the force of the impact sending the remote skidding across the bridge toward the edge. We both dived for it.
I was faster. My hand closed over the cold plastic just as a black-clad figure emerged from the smoke at the far end of the bridge. It wasn't an operative. It was Dax. He was covered in soot, his tactical gear shredded, but he was alive. He held a high-precision rifle in his good hand, his eyes fixed on Elena.
"The virus took, Mia!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "The blueprints are wiped! Every backup, every hard drive in that hangar is slag!"
Elena looked at Dax, then at me, then at the fire. The realization that she had lost everything her tech, her leverage, her empire seemed to shatter the last of her composure. She lunged for me, not for the remote, but for my throat.
"If I can't have the future, you won't live to see it!"
We collided, the force of her momentum carrying us both back toward the edge. I felt the air vanish as we tumbled over the Norton, the silver machine falling with us. For a second, we were weightless, suspended over the red earth and the burning ruins.
I reached for the bridge support, my fingers catching a steel cable, but Elena’s weight was pulling me down. I looked up and saw Dax reaching over the edge, his face a mask of agony as he stretched his injured arm toward me.
"Mia! Give me your hand!"
I looked at Elena. She wasn't fighting anymore. She was looking at the fire below, a strange, haunting peace in her eyes. She let go of my waist, her fingers slipping away as she fell into the rising smoke of the lab she had built on lies.
Dax’s hand closed around mine, his grip an iron band that refused to let go. He hauled me up, his muscles screaming, until I was collapsed on the hot asphalt of the bridge. We lay there for a long time, the sound of the studio’s alarms and the crackle of the fire the only symphony left.
"Is it done?" I whispered, my head resting on his chest.
Dax looked at the smoldering remains of the hangar, then at the Norton, which was miraculously caught in the safety netting ten feet below us.
"The Queen is gone," he said, his voice thick with a relief that went deeper than bone. "But the world still knows your name. And they’re going to be looking for the girl who burned this place to the ground."
As we stood up, a fleet of black SUVs began to circle the base of the bridge. But they weren't the studio’s security. They were marked with the crest of the local Federal Police. And standing in the lead vehicle was Kola, holding a set of legal documents and a very large, satisfied grin.
The war for the Engine was over. But as I looked at the silver key in my pocket, I realized the studio had one more secret buried in the basement.