29. Jax #2
That's when I see it through the academy's garage door. Sitting in the corner like a ghost from my past. A motorcycle from the academy's training fleet, covered in dust and neglect.
One of the bikes Gideon uses to train new riders. Just like he trained Tommy and me.
My hands start shaking, but not from fear this time. From pure, concentrated fury.
Thirteen years of nightmares versus losing her forever. No contest.
The garage smells exactly like thirteen years ago—motor oil, old leather, and that metallic tang that clings to everything in Gideon's world. My boots crunch over scattered tools as I move toward the corner where the bike sits under a paint-stained tarp.
My hands pull away the tarp without hesitation. It's a Honda Cbr600RR, black with silver accents. Similar to what Tommy was riding when he died, but not identical. Different enough that the sight of it doesn't send me spiraling into panic.
Similar enough that muscle memory kicks in immediately.
"She matters more than the fear," I say it out loud, testing how the words sound. "Mira matters more than Tommy's ghost."
The bike's keys aren't in the ignition, but that doesn't matter. I kneel beside the engine, my fingers finding the ignition wires through pure muscle memory. Red to red, black to ground, then bridging the starter circuit.
Tommy laughed when I got it wrong the first time. Said I approached every problem with pure enthusiasm, but got so excited about doing it perfectly that I'd second-guess myself into making simple things impossibly complicated.
The wires spark when I touch them together. The engine turns over once. Twice. Dies.
Come on. Work with me here.
Third try. The engine catches and rumbles to life, sending vibrations through the concrete floor and straight into my bones. The sound is perfect—smooth, powerful, ready.
I know this sound. I know this machine.
My hands stop shaking as I swing my leg over the seat. The position feels wrong for about three seconds, then muscle memory kicks in and my body remembers exactly how to distribute weight, how to grip with my knees, how to position my feet on the pegs.
I can't lose her. Not her. Not when she's finally family.
The garage door is open. LA morning traffic waits beyond it, along with whatever route those SUVs took.
I release the clutch and roll forward into the sunlight.
The motorcycle responds to my touch like it's been waiting thirteen years for me to come home. LA traffic flows around me as I weave between cars, the engine's purr vibrating through every bone in my body.
"Ghost, I'm mobile," I report through my helmet comm. "Need eyes on that convoy."
"Chaos tracking via street cameras," Xander's voice crackles back. "Three SUVs heading east toward the industrial district. Also, holy shit, you're actually on a bike."
"Yeah, well," I downshift and gun the throttle, threading between a delivery truck and a sedan with inches to spare. "Turns out I'm more afraid of losing her than becoming roadkill."
My knees grip the bike's tank as I lean into a turn. This is what I was made for.
"Visual on target convoy," I report, spotting the black SUVs three blocks ahead. "Middle vehicle likely contains package."
I close the distance, the lead SUV's driver spotting me in his mirror—I can tell by the way the convoy formation tightens, windows darkening.
The convoy makes a hard right toward the warehouse district. I follow, leaning so far into the turn that my knee nearly kisses asphalt. Thirteen years of fear, and my hands still know exactly what to do.
"Target heading toward Vernon Industrial Complex," I radio. "Moving to intercept."
I pull alongside the convoy's lead vehicle and lock eyes with the driver. He swerves toward me, trying to use his SUV's weight advantage to force me off the road.
I brake hard and drop back, watching him overcorrect and nearly clip a parked car. These guys are good, but they're not racing drivers. They're thinking like soldiers, not like racers.
Big mistake.
I surge forward again, this time targeting the rear SUV. At seventy miles per hour, I thread between the rear and middle vehicles, close enough to reach out and touch both.
The rear driver panics and hits his brakes. The middle vehicle, focused on me, doesn't react fast enough.
Metal screams against metal as the two SUVs collide, and the middle vehicle— Mira's vehicle —veers hard left and slams into a concrete barrier with enough force to deploy airbags.
I brake hard and swing around, my heart hammering against my ribs as I approach the crashed SUV. Smoke rises from the crumpled hood, and I can hear shouting from inside the vehicle.
Then the rear door explodes open.
Mira rolls out of the wreckage like liquid death, zip-tie restraints hanging from one wrist, something sharp and bloody in her other hand. The tactical team that captured her is either unconscious or screaming inside the twisted metal.
The bastards' mistake was thinking restraints would hold her.
Our eyes meet across twenty feet of broken asphalt, and her face transforms from lethal fury to something that makes my chest tight.
"You magnificent, reckless fool," she calls out, limping toward me. Blood on her lips and fury in her eyes. "Thirteen years of phobias and you pick now to play hero?"
I swing off the Honda and meet her halfway, catching her as she throws her arms around my neck. She's shaking—from adrenaline, from shock—but she's solid and warm and alive against my chest.
"Yeah, well." My voice comes out rough, shaky. "Turns out watching you get dragged away by armed psychopaths is worse than any nightmare I've had about twisted metal."
She pulls back to look at me, her eyes bright with something between tears and laughter. "And if you'd crashed that bike trying to save me?"
"Then I'd die knowing I tried instead of living knowing I was too much of a coward." I cup her face in my hands, thumb brushing over a cut on her cheek. "You're worth conquering every demon I've got."
"What if I'm not worth it?" Her voice breaks on the last word. "What if I'm just another demon?"
"Then I guess I'm collecting the whole set." I press my forehead against hers, breathing her in. "Still think you're an idiot for doing it, though."
"Yeah, well." My thumb traces the cut on her cheek like I'm memorizing it. "You're worth being an idiot for."
"God, we're both completely insane," she whispers, and then she's kissing me—desperate, hungry, alive.
That's when the world explodes around us.