Chapter 11 Chapter eleven
I pushed the Norton into redline, the vibrations rattling my teeth. Beside me, Dax was a dark shadow on his own machine, his face set in a grim mask of determination. We were closing the gap, the scream of our engines bouncing off the glass skyscrapers. Marcus swerved into an alleyway, his rear tire kicking up trash and sparks as he banked hard around a dumpster.
"He’s heading for the old foundry!" Dax’s voice crackled through the comms in my helmet. "Mia, take the service ramp to the left. If you can get above him, you can cut off the exit to the docks!"
I didn't argue. I veered away, the Norton jumping the curb and roaring up a steep concrete incline. I reached the elevated walkway just as Marcus surged into the open courtyard below. He looked up, his eyes wide with a manic terror as he saw me silhouetted against the moon. He reached for his sidearm, firing blindly over his shoulder.
The bullets whined past my head, striking the metal railing with a series of sharp pings. I stayed low, my chest pressed to the tank. I wasn't a gunman; I was a racer. I waited for the perfect moment the second his bike drifted wide on the oil-slicked concrete. I slammed on my brakes, skidding the Norton into a controlled slide that blocked the only narrow passage out of the courtyard.
Marcus squeezed his brakes, his Harley fishtailing until it laid down on its side, sliding thirty feet before slamming into a stack of shipping crates.
Dax roared into the courtyard a second later, his bike sliding to a halt in a cloud of blue smoke. He dismounted before the engine had even stopped turning, his boots heavy on the pavement. He didn't draw a gun. He walked toward his father with his hands open, the cold wind whipping his hair around his face.
"It’s over, Dutch," Dax said, his voice echoing in the hollow space. "The club knows. The feds know. There’s nowhere left to ride."
Marcus scrambled to his feet, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead. He leveled his revolver at Dax’s chest, his hand shaking with a lethal mix of rage and exhaustion. "I built this club from the dirt! I did what I had to do to keep us on top! Your brother was weak, and you’re even worse. You're throwing it all away for a mechanic’s brat!"
I stepped off my bike and moved to the edge of the elevated walkway, looking down at the man who had destroyed my life. "My father wasn't weak," I called out, my voice steady despite the adrenaline. "He was honest. That’s something you couldn't stand."
Marcus swung the gun toward me, but Dax moved instantly, stepping into the line of fire. He didn't flinch. He just kept walking toward his father, the ultimate display of a Steele's iron will.
"You want to talk about the club, Dutch?" Dax asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Look around you. You’re alone in a junkyard. That’s your legacy."
Marcus’s finger tightened on the trigger. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then, the sound of sirens flooded the district a blue-and-red wave of light reflecting off the rusted steel. Marcus looked at the approaching lights, then back at his son. The fire in his eyes died out, replaced by a hollow, bitter defeat. He lowered the gun, the heavy metal clattering onto the concrete.
"You’ll never be enough to lead them, Dax," Marcus spat, even as the federal agents swarmed the courtyard. "They’ll see your heart is soft, and they’ll tear you apart."
"I’m not leading them alone," Dax replied, his gaze shifting up to me.
As the agents tackled Marcus to the ground, Dax climbed the service ramp to reach me. He didn't say a word. He just pulled me into his arms, his heart thudding against my chest a steady, living rhythm that felt like the first real peace I’d known in years. He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs wiping away the smudge of grease on my cheek.
"It's finished, Mia," he murmured. "Truly finished."
He leaned in, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that tasted of the city’s salt and the sweet, heavy relief of justice. The sirens and the shouting faded into the background. In that moment, we weren't a Vice President or a Ghost Rider. We were just two people who had survived the wreck.
"What happens now?" I asked, pulling back just enough to see the reflection of the sunrise beginning to touch the horizon.
"Now, we rebuild," Dax said, his hand finding mine and squeezing tight. "I take the gavel. You take the garage. And we make sure the Iron Wolves finally stand for something worth protecting."
I looked at my Norton, then at the path ahead. The road was finally clear. No more shadows, no more masks. Just the open highway and the man who had ridden through hell just to stand by my side.
"I have one condition," I said, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through.
Dax raised an eyebrow, a hint of his old smirk returning. "And what’s that, Ghost?"
"I'm still the fastest one in the club."
Dax laughed a real, vibrant sound that echoed over the waking city. "We’ll see about that. I’ll race you back to the clubhouse. Winner chooses where we spend our first night of freedom."
I didn't wait for him to finish. I jumped on the Norton, kicked the engine to life, and tore off into the morning light, leaving him in my dust one last time.