Chapter 30 #2
But I give her a look that says I will be once this is over.
Once he’s dead. Voss wasn’t a target before.
But the second he opened his fucking mouth and threatened her life?
The second he made her safety sound like a privilege he could just take away?
He sealed his fucking fate. Sin might think I’ll play nice.
That I’ll wait. That I give a fuck about their rules or their threats.
But if that smug bastard so much as breathes her name again?
I’ll string him up with his own intestines and paint my fucking legacy in the blood that leaks out.
This war?
It’s fucking personal now.
The sky’s the color of old ash, smeared grey like something forgot to finish the job.
I lean against the side of my bike, smoke curling from the corner of my mouth, eyes sweeping the yard like it's a grave we’re all about to climb into.
Sin’s across from me, stuffing my hoodie into her backpack like it personally insulted her.
Her hair twisted up in that messy knot I’d kill to get my hands on.
She’s in a black tank and low-slung pants, those thighs flexing as she shifts, taunting me, daring anyone else to look, and fuck them if they do.
“This ride’s gonna be a bitch,” Ghost says, slamming the bus door and stretching his arms over his head. “Few days to Deadmoor. Longest haul yet. I hear we’re stopping in Marrow’s End halfway—refueling, patching what needs patching. Maggie said they have us stopping at some run down motel.”
“Marrow’s End?” Sin scoffs. “What is that, a brothel for corpses?”
“It’s a Syndicate zone,” Bishop says flatly, loading a crate into the side hatch. “Used to be a mining district. Now it’s one of the districts where they have their biggest headquarters. Fully Syndicate controlled.”
She snorts. “Lovely.”
She doesn’t sound nervous. But I know better. We all do.
Deadmoor’s where the road ends. The final district. The Syndicate built it like a kill switch—designed to take every last one of us out. Shifting terrain, crumbling roads, rigged explosives, elite enforcers hidden in the dark like wolves. No resets. No rules. Just one finish line.
One fucking survivor.
“I swear to god,” Sin mutters, tugging the zipper with her teeth, “my ass is gonna be broken by the time we get there.”
I push off the bike, drag the smoke from my lips. “I’ll fix it for you.”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder—half grin, half warning—and it burns hotter than the cigarette between my fingers.
“Yeah? You offering physical therapy now?”
“I’m good with my hands.”
“You mean dangerous with your hands.”
“Same thing.”
Luca groans, slapping the side of the bus. “For the love of god bro, please don’t let them stick me next to their room. I’d rather sleep outside with the stray dogs.”
“Shit, you’d probably have better luck trying to get some sleep out there anyway,” Bishop mutters, slinging a bag into the back of the rig. “I feel like even they’re less feral than those two,” he smirks, pointing to Sin and I.
“Aww, jealousy’s ugly on you, boys,” Sin says sweetly, standing and stretching like she doesn’t know what it does to me. Her tank rides up just enough to show the scabbed edge of my name carved into her skin, and I lose track of the world for a second.
Then I hear it. The low, rumbling sound of a threat.
Jace’s bike.
I glance up, and there he is, leaning back on that blacked-out machine like he’s fucking untouchable. One boot on the pedal, helmet off, his pretty-boy smirk carved into place. He’s watching us like it’s a game he already won.
Then his gaze lands on her, and he fucking licks his lips.
My vision goes red.
My firsts clench as I step forward. My smoke drops to the ground, forgotten. But Sin’s faster. She steps in front of me, plants her tiny hand against my chest, and shoves hard.
“Hey,” she snaps. “Look at me, Carter.”
I do.
Because I always do.
Her eyes burn like they’ve always burned—defiant, daring me to lose control and begging me not to at the same time.
She steps closer, fierce and unflinching. “He’s not worth it.”
My pulse still thrums like a war drum beneath my skin, but she doesn’t flinch.
“Look at me,” she says again, quieter now. “He is not worth getting yourself killed.”
Her eyes flash, that wild sea-glass green narrowed and burning. “We’ll handle him on the track. The right way. Besides…”—she smirks, but it’s full of venom—“if anyone gets to take his head, it’s going to be me.”
I swallow hard.
Fuck, I love her like this.
Like hellfire in a leather jacket. Like war wrapped in soft skin and wicked grins. She means every word, and it punches through the rage enough to steady my hands. Barely.
My mouth twitches at the edge. “Fine. But if he eye fucks you again—”
“He won’t,” she says, already turning back to her pack. “Because I’ll cut his fucking eyes out and feed them to Taz.”
A sharp crack from the overhead speakers silences the yard.
“All racers and crew, load up. Convoy rolls in sixty. Drones are active. Snipers are watching. Don’t make us put you down before the race even starts.”
Sin tosses me my helmet. “Let’s ride.”
Above us, a fleet of OmniCast drones buzz to life, casting a low mechanical hum across the sky. Their lenses glow like red eyes. Watching. Recording. Judging.
Farther off, sniper towers shift, barrels visible through the slats. No one here is free. Not yet.
I slide my helmet on, the HUD syncing to hers in a sharp flicker of green.
She pulls hers on too, climbs up behind me, her arms winding around my waist like they were built for it. Her body presses close, grounding me like only she can.
Bishop, Luca, and Ghost climb onto the bus. The engine roars as it preps to follow us out. Taz barks once from her crate in back.
I kick the engine over.
Deadmoor waits.
But as I ease the bike toward the gates, my eyes cut toward the tower.
Voss stands at the top balcony. Watching. Smiling like he already knows the ending.
I hold his gaze.
Then I rev the throttle—slow, deliberate—with a promise forged in fury and sealed in blood.
Win or die.
Either way, I’m taking your fucking head.