Chapter 15
Fifteen
Riot
I Chose Violence - iamjakehill
They say the Graveyard is fast. Unforgiving. A curse you ride into.
They’re right, but they never say how fucking loud it is.
The second that launch light slams green, I hit the throttle like I’m lighting a fuse.
The engine roars beneath us, vibrating through my bones as we blast out of the pit and into the chaos, fire and smoke licking at our heels.
Sin locks her arms around my waist, her body tight to mine, and we hit the fractured stretch of highway like we’ve got something to prove.
We do.
I’m not letting her die out here. I’d rather drag the whole fucking world down with us.
The first mile is already hell. Pavement breaks under our tires, chunks of asphalt torn up and left like landmines.
Half the riders are veering too hard—reckless and desperate.
One clips a loose beam and is flung straight into the air like a ragdoll.
He slams chest-first into the edge of a collapsed light post, his ribs caving in with a sound I feel more than hear. He doesn’t scream. He just drops.
Another tries to cut through a side alley, doesn’t see the razor wire strung low across the corner. He loses his head. Literally.
Blood sprays across the path in front of us.
Sin doesn’t flinch. Her breath is steady in my ear.
Good.
Because the Graveyard doesn’t slow down, and neither do we.
Up ahead, two riders are fighting while riding—one’s slamming the other with the butt of his weapon, a machete sheathed to his thigh. The second guy, younger, smaller, pulls a trigger under his handlebars and ejects a mini spike strip mid-turn.
The first guy doesn’t even have time to react before his front wheel locks and he eats steel at 90 mph. The other tries to celebrate with his arms up, grinning, until a sniper bullet tears through his collarbone and sends him pinwheeling off the ledge into a pit of twisted scaffolding.
“Two down,” Sin says, voice sharp in my comms.
I grunt. “Not enough.”
We hit the underpass hard, skimming the edge of a puddle that’s more blood than water. The stench hits first—burnt rubber, scorched flesh, and that sick-sweet rot that means something human was left behind too long.
We’re not slowing.
Every part of this track is meant to kill, and I know—know—Jace is behind us, just waiting for the gap.
I glance back at the HUD.
Too close.
“They’re on us,” Sin snaps, fingers digging into my jacket. “You gonna let 'em breathe down our necks all day, or are we ending this?”
I smirk under the helmet, flip the first mod switch, and we bank hard right, sliding down a maintenance ramp barely wide enough for the bike.
Behind us, two more racers follow, thinking we’re panicking.
Idiots.
We hit the bottom curve, and I flick the rear ignition charge.
Mini detonation.
Concrete collapses above them mid-turn.
Their screams are short-lived.
The bike growls under me—smooth, savage, and tuned for this shit. We shoot out of the side ramp and hit fractured open ground, wind howling past, fire rolling in from the left where another wreck burns with a rider still inside.
His hands are clawing at the handlebars.
Melting plastic sticks to his skin.
Then the tank blows.
We ride through the flame burst like we’re born in it.
And that’s when I hear him.
Jace.
That fucking engine of his roars behind us like it’s tearing through the track with a grudge. It’s all obsidian-black and slick armor plating, modded with reinforced tail vents that spit flame and a front-end blade kit sharp enough to gut steel.
Jace doesn’t ride.
He stalks.
Fast, calculated, vicious. Every race he runs is personal, every move engineered for spectacle and pain. And now he’s got a passenger.
Ash.
Fucker’s massive—tall, pale, and packed with the kind of muscle that doesn’t slow you down, just makes your hits hurt more.
Tattoos climb up his neck like barbed wire, black ink disappearing under a high collar.
One of his eyes is synthetic, glowing faint blue and flickering like it’s watching your soul try to escape your skin.
He used to be Syndicate enforcement. Silent jobs. Disposal. The kind of guy they sent in when they didn’t want a mess but always got one anyway. They kicked him loose after he crushed a racer’s windpipe on live feed and laughed through the suspension.
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t need to.
Ash rides with intent. And right now, that intent is us.
Sin twists behind me, visor angled just enough to get a read.
“Aw, look,” she says, voice laced with teeth. “He brought his little boyfriend. That’s cute.”
I grunt.
“They’re getting close,” she adds, sharper now. “Jace has eyes on us and Ash is already lining up a shot.”
“Let him.”
I tighten my grip and tilt the throttle.
They want a war?
They fucking got one.
We hit the broken highway stretch, chunks of the road collapsed and twisted, rebar reaching like claws from the ground. I shift my weight, a hard left, and pull up on the front just as we clear a snapped divider.
A bullet pings off the side panel of the bike.
“Shit,” Sin hisses.
“I see him.”
Another shot.
This one closer.
I feel Sin shift behind me but before I can stop her she grabs the sidearm from my holster, smooth as sin, and twists on the back of the bike like she was born to aim off a moving target.
Click.
One shot.
It lands clean.
Ash jerks back, shoulder blown open, blood spraying across Jace’s visor. He wobbles, unbalanced, too heavy for the rear seat. Then he slips.
Hard.
Ash hits the guardrail and bounces once then vanishes into the pit below.
But the second we clear it, I snap.
“What the fuck did I say?” I growl into the comms. “Hold on. Not ‘play hero.’ Not ‘grab my goddamn gun.’”
She laughs, feral and breathless. “Yeah, well. He’s not riding your ass anymore, is he?”
“Sin—”
“Relax. I had the shot. Took it. I did what you weren’t doing,” she snaps back. “I handled it.”
I grit my teeth, swerving hard around the smoldering body of a rider torn in half by the last minefield. Heat licks at our boots, but I don’t slow. Not now.
“Still haven’t broken that mouth of yours, huh?” My voice drops, low, rough, and cold. “Looks like I need to fuck the fight out of you a little deeper.”
She exhales a sharp breath, almost a laugh. “You can try, Carter. But I don’t break easy.”
A shot cracks through the chaos.
Sin jerks behind me sharply.
“Shit,” she hisses.
My blood turns to ice.
I feel her flinch. Feel her grip tighten and I know.
I don’t even think, just snarl into the comms.
“Where?”
“Thigh,” she grits out, breath short, voice tight with pain but steady. “Just grazed. Keep going.”
I see red.
The rage hits like impact—instant and savage. I want to stop the bike. Turn around. Find the bastard who pulled the trigger and end them. Right here. Right fucking now.
I don’t respond. Can’t. Not yet.
If I open my mouth, it won’t be words, it’ll be war.
So instead, I drive harder.
Because whoever hurt her?
They just signed their death sentence.
And I’m the motherfucker delivering it.
I lean harder into the throttle, engine howling under my rage. The checkpoint's ahead. We're almost out.
The second we hit the checkpoint, I kill the engine and swing off the bike without a word.
Sin’s still behind me, breathing hard, helmet tilted slightly, her posture all wrong.
Injured.
Bleeding.
I turn fast, grab her waist, and help her down before she can try to play tough. Her leg nearly buckles the second her boots hit the pavement.
“Easy,” I mutter, already yanking her helmet off with one hand. My other’s already on the strap of mine, tossing it aside.
Her face is flushed and pale beneath the grime.
I glance down, red soaks through the torn fabric. Shallow, but too fucking close.
Doc’s voice cuts through the noise. “Jesus. You okay?”
“Get over here. Now,” I snap.
Doc doesn’t argue.
I don’t look at the drones swarming us. Don’t register the crowd screaming behind the barricades. None of it matters.
Just her.
Bleeding.
Because some coward thought they could put her down.
I hand Sin off to Doc, voice low, dangerous. “Patch her. Don’t let her move.”
Then I turn.
Pulling my sidearm from the holster, my eyes scanning the chaos like a goddamn heat-seeker.
“Riot. What are you doing?” Luca calls out, somewhere behind me.
“Finishing it,” I growl.
Ghost intercepts me halfway across the pit, already holding out his wrist feed. “Figured you’d want to know.”
I stop long enough to study the screen.
Drone footage. Upper deck. Scoped rifle. Black gear. No faction tags. No racer ID.
Syndicate sniper.
Not a competitor. Not a threat. Just another coward with a paycheck and a clean view.
Stupid fuck was probably just following orders. Just another bootlicker with a trigger finger and no spine.
Lucky for him, his aim’s worse than Luca’s sex life.
Because if that bullet had landed half an inch higher, I’d be skinning him alive instead of giving him the easy way out.
I don’t speak.
Don’t blink.
Just walk.
The crowd parts without being told. Like animals scenting a predator in the room.
Up the stairs. Past the barricade. Through the smoke.
I find him exactly where Ghost marked packing up his rifle, breaking it down with calm little movements like this wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Like today wasn’t personal.
He stands, turns.
Sees me.
Freezes.
His hands go up, slow, shaking. Confused.
Like he doesn’t understand that this was never going to be a conversation.
I press the muzzle to his forehead, voice low and full of venom. “That was one fucking order you should’ve died before following.”
BANG.
Blood hits the wall and his body drops.
I walk away.
No urgency. No panic. Just the sound of boots on concrete and the taste of gunpowder on my tongue.
Back at the pit, the noise is deafening. But it dulls the second I step in.
Everyone’s staring.
The kill’s already on the screens. Multiple angles. Drone feed. Instant replay slowed down like it’s some fucking highlight reel.
Even the crowd is quieter now. Not out of respect.
Out of awe.
Doc’s crouched beside Sin, cleaning the blood off her leg, hands stained crimson. Bishop and Luca linger nearby, faces pale, pretending not to stare at the loop playing above them.
Sin sees me and shoves Doc’s hand off her thigh hard enough to make her stumble.
Then she stands, limping, furious and storms straight toward me.
“You absolute fucking idiot,” she spits.
I stop. Hands still bloody. Let her come.
“You killed a handler. A Syndicate sniper. Their guy,” she snarls, stabbing a finger into my chest. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”
“I knew exactly what I was doing.”
“You just signed your own fucking death warrant, Riot!”
“He touched you.”
“It was a fucking graze! You—”
“He fucking touched you.” My voice is low, a quiet growl. “That’s all it takes.”
Her mouth opens then slams shut. She’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling, her face twisted with something between fury and fear.
I take a step forward. “You think I give a fuck what patch he was wearing? You bleed, and someone’s dying for it. End of story.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“No,” I bite. “They try to take me out, I burn every handler they’ve got. They want a war? I’ll give it to them. But I’m not letting a single bastard breathe near you without knowing exactly what it’ll cost.”
“You’re not God, Riot,” she says, quiet now. “You can’t protect me from everything.”
“Maybe not, but I’ll fucking die trying.”
And I will.
Every single time.
The air shifts.
Footsteps. Slow and measured.
And then he’s there.
Voss.
Immaculate suit. Smiling like nothing’s ever personal. Like blood and money are the same fucking currency.
“Impressive finish,” he says, voice smooth as bourbon. “Both of you. Truly. I placed a sizable bet on your victory tonight. Safe to say, you made me a lot of money.”
I don’t respond. Don’t thank him, just kiss my teeth with my tongue.
He glances at the screen behind us—the sniper’s body frozen mid-collapse. His smile stays, but the edge in his voice sharpens.
“But I’d caution against making a habit out of killing my snipers. They’re expensive.”
I step toward him.
Close.
“Why?” I ask, voice flat. “We both know you’re not gonna do fuck all about it.”
Voss raises an eyebrow.
“You need me,” I continue. “You need the bloodshed. The crowd. The hype. You need someone savage enough to keep these races interesting and I’m the only one crazy enough to deliver.” I lean in. “So let’s not pretend you’re gonna do a goddamn thing about it.”
He holds my gaze for a second too long, then he smiles wider.
“Noted,” he says simply, before turning his back and walking away.
Sin exhales like she’s been holding her breath the whole time.
I turn back to her.
She’s still glaring at me.
Still shaking, and bleeding.
But still fucking mine.
Without a word, I reach down and scoop her into my arms. She lets out a sharp breath but doesn’t fight it.
Doesn’t look away.
Taz falls into step behind us, quiet and loyal.
I don’t say anything as we walk back toward our quarters.
I don’t have to.
Because if anyone even thinks about touching her again, I’m not just killing them.
I’m ending the whole fucking system that let it happen.