Chapter 10 Chapter ten
The ascent up the Devil’s Backbone was a descent into madness. Moonlight bled across the jagged rock faces, casting long, deceptive shadows that made every hairpin turn look like a drop into the abyss. I leaned the Norton so low my knee puck scraped the freezing asphalt, the friction sending a spray of orange sparks into the black night. Ahead of me, the red taillight of Victor Kane’s Suzuki taunted me, dancing like a malevolent firefly.
Kane was a predator on two wheels. He didn't just ride the line; he owned it. Every time I tried to pull alongside, he swerved with surgical precision, his rear tire kicking up loose gravel to pelt my visor. He was playing with me, waiting for the altitude or the fear to make my hands shake. But my father’s ghost was riding pillion, and Dax’s kiss was still a burn on my lips. I wasn't just fast; I was possessed.
The engine of the Norton screamed, a mechanical howl that echoed off the canyon walls. I shifted into fifth, the speedometer needle buried past one hundred. The wind battered my chest, trying to tear me from the frame, but I tucked tighter, becoming one with the machine. We were approaching the midpoint the Widowmaker.
I saw the jagged silhouette of the mountain's shoulder where the road narrowed to a single, treacherous lane. This was where Kane usually made his move, forcing riders to choose between a head-on collision with the rock or a thousand-foot plunge. I checked my odometer. Three hundred yards.
There, hidden behind a cluster of stunted pines and a fallen boulder, was the entrance to the logging trail Dax had described. It looked like a crack in the world, barely wide enough for a handlebar. If I hit it too fast, I’d shatter my forks. If I hit it too slow, Kane would see me.
Kane looked back over his shoulder, a flash of white teeth visible through his visor as he decelerated for the hairpin. He thought he’d won.
I didn't brake. I shifted down once, the engine braking hard as I steered the Norton directly toward the darkness of the trees.
"See you at the bottom, bastard," I hissed into my helmet.
I hit the dirt transition at sixty. The bike bucked violently, the suspension bottoming out with a bone-jarring thud. For a second, I was airborne, the world spinning in a blur of pine needles and gray rock. I landed hard, the rear tire fishtailing through deep mud before the knobby tires Dax had swapped on caught their grip.
The trail was a nightmare. Low-hanging branches whipped against my helmet, and the ground was a minefield of wet roots and loose shale. I stood on the pegs, my thighs burning, steering the skeletal Norton through the narrow gaps with the instinct of a hunted animal. My heart was a drum, beating out a rhythm of pure, unadulterated survival.
The trail sloped steeply downward, gravity pulling me faster than the engine could. I could hear the faint roar of Kane’s Suzuki on the paved road above me, the sound of a man who thought he was racing a ghost.
I burst through a thicket of brush and landed back on the asphalt, the Norton’s tires screaming as they regained traction. I was three miles ahead.
The finish line was a makeshift camp of floodlights and idling motorcycles at the base of the pass. I saw the flash of the Iron Wolves’ colors and the blue-and-red strobes of the federal task force Dax had promised. They were tucked behind a row of trailers, waiting for the signal.
I crossed the line in a blur of speed, the checkered flag snapping in the wind. I didn't stop. I pulled a sharp U-turn, the tires smoking as I brought the bike to a halt facing the mountain.
A minute later, the roar of the Suzuki approached. Kane rounded the final bend, his bike leaning hard. He saw me standing there, my helmet off, the Norton idling like a beast at my side. He braked so hard his rear wheel lifted off the ground, his bike skidding to a halt ten feet away.
He flipped up his visor, his face twisted in disbelief and fury. "How? There’s no way you passed me."
"You were too busy looking at the road, Victor," I said, my voice cold and steady. "You forgot to look at the shadows."
Dax stepped out from behind a line of bikes, his face illuminated by the floodlights. He wasn't wearing his VP vest; he was wearing a tactical jacket, and in his hand was the encrypted drive I’d carried down the mountain.
"It's over, Kane," Dax said. The authority in his voice was absolute. "The task force has the recordings. They have the beta-blocker shipment logs. And they have the wire transfer Marcus sent to your offshore account the night Chen Wei died."
Kane reached for a sidearm tucked into his jacket, but he wasn't fast enough. Three red laser dots appeared on his chest as the federal agents swarmed the clearing.
"Drop it!" an agent screamed.
Kane looked at the guns, then at Dax, and finally at me. He dropped the weapon and put his hands up, the smirk finally erased from his face.
Dax didn't look at the agents. He walked straight to me. He didn't care about the cameras or the club members watching. He grabbed me by the waist and hauled me against him, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that tasted of victory and the promise of a life that didn't involve running.
"You did it, Ghost," he whispered against my lips. "You took it all back."
"We took it back," I corrected, leaning my head against his shoulder.
But as the agents led Kane away, I saw a black Harley idling at the edge of the woods. The rider’s face was obscured, but I recognized the jagged silhouette of the Iron Wolves’ President. Marcus Steele wasn't going down without a fight. He revved his engine once a challenge and disappeared into the trees.
Dax’s grip on me tightened. The war for the club wasn't over. It was just moving into the dark.
"Stay with the agents," Dax said, his eyes turning back into the hard obsidian I’d first seen. "I have to finish this."
"Not without me," I said, reaching for my helmet. "I’m the one with the faster bike."
Dax looked at me, a flash of pride and fear warring in his expression. He nodded once. "Then let's go end the legacy of the Steeles."