Chapter 7 City of Teeth #3
Old snow was piled at the curbs, gray and crusted with exhaust, melting into slush that sprayed up from car tires.
The roads were mostly clear but slick in patches where ice had refrozen overnight, black and invisible until you were on it.
I kept my speed reasonable, tested the bike's grip on turns, and learned how it handled on wet pavement.
By the time the sun started dropping, I'd put enough miles on the bike that my hands were cold even in the gloves and my ass was sore from the seat. But I felt better. Clearer. Like maybe I could go back to Declan's house and not make an ass of myself.
I headed back north as the light faded, weaving through traffic that had thickened with the evening rush.
The streets were busier here with more cars, more noise, more of everything that made Chicago feel alive.
Flurries had started falling, light and lazy, barely sticking to the pavement but enough to catch in headlights and make visibility worse.
That's when I noticed the tail.
A black sedan was three cars back, staying too steady, matching my speed too precisely when I changed lanes. Could be coincidence. Could be paranoia from years of Sentinel work making me see threats that weren't there.
I tested it. I took a random turn down a side street. The sedan followed.
This was intentional, not coincidence.
I opened the throttle and weaved between cars, putting distance between us. The sedan kept pace, the driver clearly skilled, not losing me even when I pushed through yellows and cut across lanes.
I needed to lose them or confront them, and losing seemed smarter when I didn't know how many were in the car or what they wanted.
I took another turn, harder this time, leaning into it until my knee almost scraped pavement. The bike handled it beautifully. The sedan fell back slightly, hampered by traffic.
I could work with that.
I pushed harder, opening up the engine, letting the bike do what it was built for.
Speed and power, the acceleration that left cars behind and made the world blur.
The road was slick under my tires, patches of black ice hidden in shadows, but I'd spent years on bikes in worse conditions.
I knew how to read pavement, how to feel when traction started slipping.
The sedan tried to keep up and failed. I watched it fall back in my mirrors, satisfaction cutting through the adrenaline.
Then a motorcycle pulled out of a side street ahead of me.
Not just any bike. A sport bike, blacked out, the rider dressed in dark gear that made them hard to see in the fading light. They fell in behind me smoothly, matching my speed without effort.
I needed off this street. I needed somewhere with witnesses, lights, people who'd notice if things went bad.
I took a hard left down an alley, narrow and lined with dumpsters. Risky as hell on a bike, but the tight space would make the car useless.
The motorcycle followed. Of course it did.
The alley opened onto a side street. I shot through, barely slowing, and the other rider was right there. Closer now. Close enough that I could see they were bigger than me, broader, moving with easy control that came from experience.
They pulled alongside and reached out. They grabbed my handlebar.
The bike wobbled. I yanked it back and swerved hard, but they'd already done the damage. Thrown off my balance just enough that I had to slow down or risk eating pavement.
I slowed. They didn't.
They came at me from the side, forcing me toward the curb. I tried to accelerate out of it but they were faster, better, reading my moves before I made them.
We ended up stopped. Both bikes were idling in an empty loading zone behind some warehouse, light fading fast, nobody around. Snow was falling harder now, fat flakes that melted on my jacket and stuck to the ground.
The rider dismounted smooth and fast. They pulled off their helmet.
A mask was underneath. Black fabric covering everything from the nose down, only their eyes visible. Dark and cold and completely unreadable. The setup said this wasn't about intimidation. This was about staying anonymous while they finished the job.
This was not fucking good.
“Troy Donnelly,” they said. The voice was male, flat and professional. Not a question.
I kept my helmet on and stayed on the bike. “Who's asking?”
“Doesn't matter. Get off the bike.”
“How about you go fuck yourself instead.”
He smiled. I could see it in the crinkle around his eyes, cold amusement that had nothing to do with humor. Then he moved.
He closed the distance before I could react, grabbed my jacket, and yanked me off the bike with strength that said he knew exactly what he was doing.
I hit the ground hard. Asphalt scraped my palms through my gloves. I rolled with the momentum and came up swinging.
He blocked the first punch with his forearm and slipped the second by angling his head just enough. He drove a knee into my ribs that knocked the air out of my lungs and made stars explode behind my eyes.
Pain bloomed hot and immediate. I staggered back, trying to get space, trying to breathe through ribs that felt like they'd cracked.
He followed without hesitation.
I tried to use footwork, tried to create distance. I threw a jab to keep him back. He slipped it easy and countered with a low kick to my lead leg that buckled my knee and nearly dropped me.
I caught myself barely in time and threw a hook that he blocked with his forearm, then I followed with an elbow aimed at his head.
He ducked under it and drove an uppercut into my solar plexus that folded me in half.
The air left my lungs in a rush. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only stagger backward while my body tried to remember how oxygen worked.
He pressed forward with the same brutal approach, clean and methodical, nothing wasted.
I managed to block the next punch. I took the one after that on my shoulder instead of my face. I tried to counter with a kick to his knee but he checked it easily, swept my other leg, and I went down hard.
My back hit pavement. My head bounced. My vision swam with black spots.
He was on me before I could recover. His knee was on my chest, pinning me down, one hand fisted in my jacket while the other cocked back for a punch that was going to break my face.
I grabbed his wrist and twisted. I used his forward momentum against him and bucked my hips hard enough to throw him off balance.
He rolled with it smoothly and came up in a crouch while I scrambled to my feet, gasping, ribs screaming, tasting copper.
We circled each other. We were both breathing hard now and both bleeding a little. I'd managed to split his knuckles on my teeth at some point. He'd opened a cut above my eyebrow that was dripping blood into my vision.
“You're good. Better than I expected.” His voice was still calm and professional.
“Yeah? Well you're still a piece of shit.”
He came at me again and I was ready this time. I slipped his jab and countered with a cross that caught him clean on the jaw. His head snapped back. I followed with a hook to his ribs and felt the impact travel up my arm.
He grunted. Actually grunted. It was the first real sound of pain I'd gotten out of him.
I pressed the advantage and threw another combination. Jab-cross-hook. He blocked the first two, took the third on his shoulder, then grabbed my extended arm and twisted.
Pain shot through my elbow like lightning. He used the leverage to spin me around and slammed me face-first into the brick wall.
Brick scraped my cheek. Blood was in my mouth now, warm and metallic. My arm was still trapped, bent at an angle that made my shoulder scream.
He drove his other fist into my ribs in rapid succession. Each impact sent shockwaves of pain through my already damaged torso and I felt a rib give. I heard it crack.
I tried to twist away but he had me pinned. I was completely at his mercy.
“Message from a friend. Stay away from Chicago. Go back to London. This is your only warning.” His voice stayed flat, right next to my ear.
Then he went for my kidney.
The first hit made every nerve in my body light up. The pain was instant and total, radiating out from the impact point like someone had lit me on fire from the inside.
He hit me again and I tried to scream but nothing came out. Just a choked gasp that sounded pathetic even to me.
Another blow landed and my legs gave out. Only his grip on my arm kept me upright, kept me pinned against the wall while he methodically destroyed my insides.
The world was going gray at the edges when he hit me again. I tasted bile.
One more strike and everything went white.
He let go.
I collapsed like a puppet with cut strings. I hit the ground in a heap, curled around the agony in my side, gasping for air that wouldn't come. Every breath felt like someone was shoving a knife between my ribs and twisting.
He crouched beside me. I could see his boots in my peripheral vision, polished and clean despite the fight.
“Smart man would take the warning. Question is whether you're smart or just stubborn.” His voice was still calm, still professional, like he hadn't just beaten me half to death in an alley.
He stood up and walked away. I heard his footsteps, steady and unhurried. I heard his bike start up. I heard the engine fade as he rode away like this was just another job completed.
I lay there for I don't know how long. It could've been a minute or it could've been ten. Time stopped meaning anything when every breath felt like someone was shoving a knife between my ribs.
Finally I forced myself to move. I rolled onto my hands and knees. The world tilted violently, righted itself, and tilted again.
I vomited. I couldn't help it. Everything I'd eaten that day came up in a rush that made my ribs scream and my kidney throb and brought tears to my eyes that had nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with pain.
When I was done I sat back on my heels and wiped my mouth with a shaking hand. I tried to take inventory through the haze of agony.
My ribs were cracked at minimum. They were maybe broken, but it was hard to tell when everything hurt this much.
My kidney felt like someone had beaten it with a hammer. I was probably going to be pissing blood for days.
My face was a mess. I could feel swelling already, could taste blood from where I'd bitten my tongue or split my lip or both.
My hands were scraped raw even through the gloves. My knee was throbbing from where I'd hit pavement. My shoulder was protesting every movement.
But I was alive. I hurt like hell, but I was alive.
My bike was still there. It was upright on its kickstand like nothing had happened. I stared at it, trying to figure out how the fuck I was going to get on it when standing felt like an Olympic achievement.
I needed to focus on one thing at a time.
I got to my feet. It took three tries. I leaned against the wall while the world stopped spinning enough that I could risk walking.
I made it to the bike somehow. I got my leg over the seat with a sound that was half groan, half sob. I sat there trying to remember how to function.
Someone had just tried to kill me. Or warn me. Or both.
And whoever sent them knew my name. They knew where I'd be. They knew exactly how to find me.
I started the bike with shaking hands and pointed it toward Declan's house. Snow was falling steadily now, sticking to the roads, making everything slick and treacherous. Every bump in the road sent fresh waves of agony through my battered body.
This wasn't over.
It was just getting started.