Chapter Forty
“Why are we leaving now?” I asked, slinging my rucksack onto my shoulders.
“There’s something I want to do before we leave the North East, Chase.”
“And it has to be done in the middle of the night?”
“It’s morning, Chase.”
“And I need wire cutters for this thing we’re doing? We’re supposed to be discreet. Escaping. Not doing shit with wire cutters.”
“Has Gina got wire cutters, or not?” Jazz pulled the helmet over her face.
“Yeah. Yeah. They’re just under the utility room sink.” I signalled in front of the bikes. “I would have liked to say a proper goodbye. Feels a bit shit just fucking off like this.”
“That girl said she was busy with someone,” she shrugged.
I nodded. “Yeah, I know. I guess she’ll not be too pissed off when she opens that rucksack.” I’d left it on her chair in the lounge. There was no note. No last words. Just a shitload of cash. I figured she would get the message.
*****
We rode through the dawn. It was dark at first, the sunrise bleeding way out in the east. Gold strands reaching out into the dark. The roads were quiet, the odd car and a few more HGVs enjoying the space ahead of them.
Jazz took us west, the dawn chasing us, catching us up quickly. The damp from the night still clung to the tarmac, slick and shining under the thin wash of light. Our tyres hissed over it, sending up fine mist trails that caught the morning air like smoke.
The cold bit through my leathers, and I watched her ahead of me, the Hayabusa slicing through the grey like a black blade. Every line of her body matched the machine. Confident. Instinctive. The kind of rider who didn’t think, just was.
The fields on either side blurred by. Open land, flat and sparkling in dew. Then came the road signs; brown, white writing, slick with morning moisture. Croft Circuit.
She slowed just a little, enough that I could pull up beside her.
She didn’t look at me, just pointed that sharp chin of hers, the one that always came out when she was about to do something reckless, defiant.
We passed the sign and rolled on for another half mile, the road narrowing until it was little more than a single track, eaten at the edges by weeds.
A chain-link fence ran along the right-hand side, high and silver, the kind meant to keep out idiots like us.
Jazz pulled over, killed the engine, and the silence slammed down heavy. She pulled off her helmet, hair tumbling out in dark, damp strands. There was a mischief in her smile, something wild stirring in her eyes.
“Give me the cutters,” she said.
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
“Tell me you’re not about to…”
She just grinned, holding out her hand, palm open. “Used to ride here when I was younger, back when Fury still knew how to have fun. Used to come out here, cut the fence and do as many laps as we could before security showed up.”
I reached into the pack and passed her the cutters. “And how many times did they catch you?”
She smiled under her helmet, her face moving, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Enough to make me quick.”
The wire snapped under the first squeeze.
A clean metallic ping, and then again until she was pulling a gap big enough to slide the bikes through.
The air beyond smelt different. Track tarmac had its own scent, burnt rubber and oil soaked deep into its skin.
Even after all these years, it still recognised it, humming in my veins with ghosts of races past. My heart was already hammering in my chest, an excited tension building in my fingertips, and I could almost hear the roar of the bikes, hear the sound of the crowd.
Jazz straddled the Hayabusa, kicked the stand up, and looked at me over her shoulder. “Two laps. For old times’ sake?”
I couldn’t say no to that. Not to her. I revved the NR750, the sound swelling huge in the cold air, a low growl that echoed off the fencing. The old girl was hungry, that rare thrum of the oval pistons vibrating through my chest. Jazz gave me a nod, dropped the clutch, and shot forward.
The world blurred.
The track opened out, a ribbon of black snaking through open land. The first corner came fast, and she took it clean, knees down, body low. I followed, the Honda gripping like it remembered what it was made for. The roar filled the empty air, engines screaming in harmony.
For a second, just one wild, perfect second, it wasn’t about running or hiding. It wasn’t about the Rats or the Kings or any of the fucked-up choices that got us here. It was freedom again. The kind I hadn’t felt since before the crash.
Jazz was quick. Too quick, reckless, the Hayabusa twitching on the straights, tyres sliding slightly on the damp. But I had her measure. I always did. On the second corner, I pulled in close, right into her slipstream, the Honda thrumming beneath me like a pulse in my veins.
She glanced back once, caught my eyes through the visor, and I swear she smiled. Wild. Feral.
By the last lap, we were side by side. The bikes screamed as the sun broke fully over the horizon, spilling gold over the tarmac. When we finally eased off, rolling to a stop just before the pit lane, the silence that followed was deafening.
I pulled my helmet off first, breath fogging in the morning air. Jazz followed, hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes burning brighter than the sunrise.
“That was—”
“Yeah,” I said, before she could finish.
She smiled again. That rare one, soft, almost tender, leaning across the space between us. The kiss was hot, desperate, still tasting of petrol and adrenaline. The kind of kiss that told you words weren’t enough.
Then came the shout.
“Oi! You can’t be in here!”
Security.
We broke apart just as the guard came running across the pit lane, waving his arms like he actually stood a chance of catching us. Jazz laughed, that throaty, glorious laugh that hit me straight in the chest, and jammed her helmet back on.
“One more ride?” She shouted over the engine as it started underneath her.
“Fucking go for it!” I shouted back.
The Hayabusa screamed again, spinning gravel behind her as she tore for the fence.
I followed, the NR750 roaring in its wake.
We hit the gap she’d cut, tucked low, our bodies pressed against the tanks.
The metal edges of the fence reached out, a light whoosh against our arms as we burst through it like bullets from a gun.
The main road opened up ahead. South. Away from everything.
The engines howled in the morning air, the wind clawing at us, the world narrowing to speed and sound and the blur of tarmac beneath us. The sun caught the chrome, flaring gold, and for the first time in too long, I felt it again; that raw, pure pulse of being alive.
Behind us, the track faded into the distance.
And ahead, nothing but open road.