Racing the Devil’s Claim

They say you can't outrun your past on two wheels, but I was about to prove them wrong until the man who destroyed my father's legacy pulled up beside me at 90 miles per hour.

The engine beneath me roared like a caged beast as I leaned into the turn, my knee nearly scraping asphalt. Wind screamed past my helmet, carrying the acrid smell of burning rubber and gasoline. This was freedom. This was power. This was the only place where Mia Chen, struggling mechanic and daddy's disappointing daughter, didn't exist.

Here, I was Ghost Rider.

The motorcycle beneath me, a custom Ducati I'd rebuilt from salvage, responded to my every touch like an extension of my body. I'd spent three years perfecting her, using every spare dollar I could scrape together from my day job at Murphy's Garage. Murphy paid me half what he paid his male mechanics, but I couldn't complain. Jobs were scarce when your last name was Chen and everyone in Coldwater knew your father died owing money to half the town.

The straightaway opened up before me, and I twisted the throttle. The speedometer climbed at eighty, ninety, one hundred. My competitor, a rider on a Yamaha R1 who went by "Razor," was half a bike length behind. I could feel his frustration radiating through the night air. He'd been winning these underground races for six months straight until Ghost Rider appeared three months ago.

He had no idea Ghost Rider was a woman. None of them did.

That was the point.

The final turn approached, a sharp chicane that separated the winners from the wrecks. I'd memorized every inch of this abandoned airstrip outside town, knew exactly where the asphalt cracked and where oil stains made the surface treacherous. I braked hard, downshifted, and dove into the turn.

That's when I felt something was wrong with my helmet strap.

The cheap clasp I'd been meaning to replace finally gave up. The helmet shifted on my head, the visor tilting. I couldn't see clearly. Panic shot through me, but I couldn't slow down now, not this close to the finish line. I'd lose everything, the five thousand dollar purse I desperately needed to make this month's payments on Dad's debts.

I crossed the finish line first, but the helmet was sliding backward. My hands flew up instinctively to catch it, and the bike wobbled. I managed to regain control and slow down, but it was too late.

The helmet tumbled from my grip.

Long black hair spilled down my back as I brought the Ducati to a stop. The crowd of spectators, rough men and women who bet on these illegal races fell silent. In the sudden quiet, I could hear my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Holy shit," someone breathed. "Ghost Rider's a chick?"

I turned slowly, meeting dozens of stares. Some shocked. Some angry. Some calculating in a way that made my skin crawl. I'd been so careful for months, and now everything was ruined in one moment of mechanical failure.

Then I heard the sound that made my blood run cold, the deep rumble of multiple motorcycles approaching. Heavy bikes. Harleys, from the sound of them. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as five riders rolled into the circle of light cast by the spectators' headlights.

The lead rider dismounted with predatory grace. Even in the dim light, I recognized him. Everyone in Coldwater knew Dax Steele. Six-foot-three of leather-clad muscle, dark hair pulled back in a knot, and eyes that could cut through steel. The Vice President of the Iron Wolves Motorcycle Club.