Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Riot
You ever notice how the sky’s always fucking blue on the worst days?
Like it’s laughing at you. Taunting you with how clear and bright it looks while everything down here’s rotting.
Deadmoor’s no exception. Today, the sky’s spotless. Not a single cloud. No smog to choke the light. Just sunbeams and silence, like nature didn’t get the memo that most of us won’t make it out of here alive.
It should be storming. Should be black and howling and brutal. But no, the world picked today to look clean.
Like it’s already wiped its hands of us.
The crowd’s already a riot of screams behind blood-slicked barriers. OmniCast drones are circling like vultures, hunting for the next viral kill shot. Syndicate banners flap overhead like flags at a funeral.
And there she is.
My Little Stray.
Gearing up like it’s just another goddamn day in hell.
Chest plate tight. Gloves locked. Mag checked. Knife in her boot. The smooth, brutal precision of her routine and it kills me.
Because she looks like a soldier.
Like an executioner. An angel carved from fucking vengeance and set loose with a death wish, and I can’t shake the feeling I’m watching her walk into a fucking grave.
Mine or hers, I don’t know anymore.
“East ramps are rigged with spikes,” she mutters, sliding her blade home. “Guess we’re taking the scenic route.”
I grunt. “Long way’s better than dead.”
She doesn’t argue but she doesn’t agree either. That fire in her eyes flicks toward the pit across from us. Watching the other racers prepare. Watching Jace’s empty bike idle without its snake.
No Jace.
Not good.
My hands twitch on the handlebars. Something’s wrong. I can feel it in my fucking bones, and then she curses under her breath.
“My keychain,” she says. “I left it in the room.”
“You don’t need a fucking trinket to win.”
“Maybe not, but I want it with me when we cross that finish line,” she snaps, already turning. “I’m not going without it.”
“Sin.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Two minutes,” she calls over her shoulder.
“You’ve got one,” I growl, stepping into her space, low and lethal.
“And after we win this bullshit, I’m fucking you right there on the pavement, in the blood of the bastards who didn’t make it.
With the OmniCast live, so every goddamn district sees who you belong to.
Maybe then, maybe then, I’ll finally fuck the last of that defiance out of you.
” She flips me off without turning around.
Fucking brat.
But she’s mine.
The second she disappears around the corner of the arena warehouse, something ugly digs its claws into my gut. This doesn’t feel right. Not just nerves. Not just the pre-race itch under my skin. This is something different. It’s the kind of dread that screams like a warning shot under your ribs.
The bike growls under me like it fucking knows. That stupid little demon decal Sin slapped on the tank stares up at me, all horns and attitude, like even it can feel the shift in the air, like it’s mocking me for not moving yet.
I swing off the bike, boots hitting pavement hard. My hands won’t stop twitching. Jaw locked. Heart pounding like a fucking war drum. I start pacing, trying to shake the feeling crawling up my spine. Like something’s off. Like something’s wrong.
I dig into my pocket, yank out a smoke with shaking fingers, and light it with a sharp drag—burning my lungs, and trying to calm the storm. It doesn’t help.
Fifteen fucking minutes.
I clock the time and feel my jaw tighten. She’s been gone too long. It doesn’t take fifteen goddamn minutes to grab a keychain. Not unless something’s wrong. Not unless someone made sure she didn’t come back.
My gut’s screaming. My fists itch. And every second that ticks by feels like another fucking nail in someone’s coffin.
Then I see him—Ghost—rushing over, pale as death, tablet clutched tight in his hands like he’s carrying a live grenade. He’s shaking.
“I got it,” Ghost pants, breath ragged like he ran through hell to get to me.
“Got what?” I snap, already halfway to combusting.
“The hard drive,” he gasps. “I cracked it. There’s feeds, hidden shit. District-level. Unlisted.”
I don’t wait.
I snatch the tablet from his hands, grip so tight it creaks beneath my fingers.
And then everything goes still.
The crowd. The race. The fucking world.
Silent. Dead.
Because there she is.
Sin.
My Little Stray. Strapped to a chair like bait. Head slumped forward, mouth bloodied. One eye nearly swollen shut. Wrists chewed up by zip ties, skin raw and bleeding. Her chest rises in shaky breaths—she’s alive. Barely, but alive.
In front of her, Jace is pacing like the smug piece of shit he is, spinning a knife in his hand like he’s waiting for her to flinch.
But she won’t.
She’d never give him that.
Behind him, a shadow. A figure. Tall and still. Watching from the corner like a goddamn puppeteer behind the curtain.
And I know.
Even if I’ve never seen his face, I fucking know.
That’s Alaric Kane.
Every bone in my body recognizes him. Every scar, every sleepless night, every whispered order the Syndicate’s ever sent down leads to him. He doesn’t move. Just watches, like this is entertainment.
My vision tunnels.
My blood boils like acid in my veins.
I feel the snap in my skull like a fuse catching fire.
And then I move.
“Fuck,” I growl, throwing the tablet back at Ghost. “Keep your eyes on her. Patch me in. Now.”
I storm off like a goddamn missile.
The first handler who steps into my path doesn’t even get a word out. I take a drag from my cigarette, blow the smoke into his face then press the cherry into his cheek.
He screams.
I grab his collar and slam my forehead into his nose with a sickening crunch—bone splits, blood sprays, and he crumples like wet laundry onto the pavement.
Panic erupts.
Racers freeze. Handlers stumble back. The crowd’s roar fractures into gasps and chaos. The OmniCast catches every second, every twitch of fury, every blow, live across every goddamn district.
Another Syndicate grunt makes the mistake of lunging at me.
I pivot, catch his wrist mid-swing, and twist until it snaps like dry wood. He screams but I silence it with a bullet to the throat.
A third charges. I don’t even look at him.
I draw the blade from my belt and jam it straight into his chest as I walk past—grip tight, twist cruel. He drops like a sack of meat, gurgling on the blood flooding his lungs.
“Riders, take your positions!” one of the announcers shouts, voice cracking over the system. “Final Gauntlet is about to begin!”
I don’t stop.
I don’t fucking blink.
Let the cameras roll. Let them all see.
Death’s already riding and I’m the motherfucking Reaper come to collect.
I pull my helmet from the seat and shove it on, locking the visor into place. The HUD syncs. The comms crackle.
“Bishop. Luca. Ghost, you copy?”
“We’ve got you,” Bishop snaps back, voice razor sharp. “We’re already moving. We’ll cover you.”
Good.
Family.
I reach my bike and throw a leg over her, engine humming like it’s ready to tear someone’s throat out.
“Ghost, location,” I snarl. “Now.”
“I’ve got coordinates pinging,” he says. “Sending to your HUD. Off-grid building. Northwest edge of Deadmoor, right outside the Syndicate zone. No signage. No patrols logged but she’s there.”
The GPS paints a blood-red line across my display.
Perfect.
I grip the throttle but another Syndicate handler lunges toward me, weapon raised.
Before I can even react—
BANG.
The fucker’s skull erupts mid-step. He hits the ground hard, blood painting the pavement.
I glance over.
Luca lowers his pistol, calm as ever.
“Go get our girl,” he mutters.
I nod and twist the throttle.
The bike screams to life, and I launch into the chaos like a bullet fired from hell’s own barrel.
I don’t care about the countdown.
I don’t care about the fucking crowd.
All I care about is her. And if she’s not breathing when I get there—I’ll burn this whole fucking district to the ground and piss on the ashes.
“How much fucking further?” I growl into the comms, every muscle in my body coiled tight.
“Take a left up ahead,” Ghost snaps. “Cut through the underpass then two blocks straight. Grey building on the corner. Smashed windows. You can’t miss it.”
I lean harder into the throttle, engine screaming beneath me like it wants blood, too.
“She’s close, Riot. Back room. Still unconscious but I don’t think she will be for much longer. You have to get her out before her mouth gets her killed. Kane’s waited long enough to take her head, he’s not gonna wait much longer.”
“Unlock every door between me and that room.”
“Already on it, and Riot…”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think this is just about her anymore. They’re using her as bait. They’re waiting for you.”
A slow smile cuts across my face, cruel and cold.
“Let ’em wait,” I snarl. “They won’t be waiting long, death’s already on the way,”
I twist the throttle and rip through the north gate like hell just spat me out. Steel and chain link tear apart in a shower of sparks. The engine growls like it wants blood as much as I do—feral, loud, unrelenting—as I tear through the city, fists clenched, heart set on murder.
“Luca and Bishop are intercepting patrols on your flank,” Ghost updates. “You’ve got maybe ten minutes until backup arrives.”
“I only need five.”
The buildings blur. Alleyways twist. Deadmoor is a fucking tomb, and I’m the wraith tearing through it.
The HUD pulses red with every turn Ghost feeds me.
I tear down side streets scorched by firebombs, across cracked bridges that groan beneath my wheels.
Old signs blur past. Syndicate checkpoints vanish behind me.
Gunfire snaps through the air—one stray shot kisses my shoulder and sparks off my armor but I don’t flinch.
A Syndicate truck barrels out of an alley ahead. Two guards on foot, rifles raised.
I don’t slow down.
I pull the clutch with one hand and draw my pistol with the other. One shot to the knee, he screams. Another to the face. The second guard dives for cover, too late. I floor the gas and ride past them like they don’t exist.
Every mile I eat is a second closer to her. Every part of me is fire of rage, and violence. She needed me and I wasn’t there. I’m not making that mistake twice. The structure comes into view—gray brick, dead, forgotten. Rust eating through the walls like cancer.
Perfect fucking place for a massacre.
The grey brick compound looms like a festering wound in the ribs of this godforsaken district—steel doors corroded with rust, paint peeled like decaying flesh, no signage, no soul. Just blank concrete and the promise of death on the other side.
I slam the brakes into a savage sideways skid. The tires scream across pavement scarred from years of rot and blood. The back wheel clips a rusted pipe and sends a spray of sparks into the night.
I kick off mid-motion and hit the steel door like a battering ram. It bursts inward with a groan like it’s begging for mercy and I’m the last motherfucker alive who’ll give it.
Then I throw myself into the goddamn fire.
First guard’s there. Just inside the hall. Built like a tank, Syndicate gear hanging half-off like he’s too cocky to wear it right. Shotgun halfway up.
Too fucking slow.
My blade’s already in my hand, and before he can open his mouth, it’s shoved up under his jaw and into his brain. His blood hits the wall in a thick spray as he gurgles on steel.
Second asshole’s faster. Bald head. Black Kevlar. Tactical knife already gleaming. He snarls, lunges like he’s trained for this.
Cute.
I twist, catch his swing, and slam my elbow into the side of his head so hard I feel bone crack. He staggers then I grab the collar of his vest and twist with everything I’ve got. His spine gives out with a pop like a fucking soda can, and he drops like dead weight.
Third hears it and bolts.
Panic in his step. Too little, too fucking late.
I pull my sidearm, line him up while he’s still trying to scream for backup and squeeze the trigger.
One clean shot to the back, right through the vest, straight into the spine.
He collapses mid-run, twitching like a dying insect before slamming face-first into the wall, leaving a red smear as he slides down.
Fourth dipshit’s behind a desk. Scrawny. Probably new. Body armor too big. Hand shaking like a fucking leaf as he fumbles for a comm. Eyes wide like he’s seeing death for the first time.
Good.
I shoot his hand first, watching it explode in a wet mess across the desk. He screams like a bitch, then hits the floor.
I shoot his knee next. The sound he makes then isn’t even human.
And then?
One more shot. Right between the eyes. His head jerks back, hits the desk behind him. Blood paints the wall like abstract art.
Then nothing.
Silence.
But not the peaceful kind. Not the silence of calm.
This is the aftermath. The calm that comes after you level a fucking battlefield.
Blood’s pooling fast—slick and black under the shitty flickering hallway lights. The smell hits me hard: cordite, smoke, piss, blood, and something underneath it all. That rot. That fucking Syndicate stink. Like death wrapped in concrete and wrapped in secrets.
They were set up just past the breach. Standard Syndicate dogs. Not elite. Not soldiers. Just bodies with orders. Disposable.
And now? Disposed.
I step over them slow, methodical. My boots squelch in the gore. My fingers twitch around my blade. My pulse is a fucking war drum.
Because I’m close.
She’s in here.
And if I walk in and I’m too fucking late, I swear on every grave this world’s rotting in, I’ll burn this compound to ash. I’ll gut Kane slow, carve his name off the bones of history, and make every bastard who watched her suffer beg for a death I won’t give them.
This wasn’t a misstep. This was a death wish. And what do you know?
The motherfucking Reaper answered.