We turned back toward town just before two. Moore signaled the shift, and the group tightened up, preparing to roll through the final stretch together.
Everything still looked good.
Then it went to hell.
We were approaching the intersection that the cops had blocked off to keep the ride together. I saw the cruiser first. Lights flashing, and angled just enough to block cross traffic. I eased off the throttle, keeping pace with Moore.
That’s when I heard the crash.
Metal on metal. Loud. Violent.
I snapped my head to the right just in time to see a large SUV slam into the police car, the impact sending the cruiser skidding sideways toward our path. Sirens wailed, sharp and immediate, and behind the SUV I spotted three motorcycles coming in hot.
Chrome Warriors.
“Hold,” Moore barked over the radio.
I felt Juliet tense against me. My grip tightened automatically, one hand bracing her leg, the other ready on the handlebars.
The SUV swerved, tires screeching, trying to angle toward us. Toward Moore. Toward the front of the formation.
Police moved fast.
Another cruiser surged in, blocking the SUV’s path, and an officer jumped out, weapon drawn, shouting commands that cut through the chaos. The motorcycles split with one veering left, and two trying to push through the gap.
Bad move.
The SUV skidded to a stop, boxed in, smoke curling from the hood. Doors flew open. The driver bolted.
So did the bikers.
I killed my engine and swung off the bike in one smooth motion, keeping Juliet behind me.
“Stay here,” I said, voice low and sharp.
She nodded, eyes wide but steady.
One of the Chrome riders broke away from the others, sprinting toward the sidewalk. I recognized him instantly. The guy from the shop. Same sneer. Same dead-eyed rage.
I ran.
He glanced back once, panic flashing, and that hesitation was all I needed. I tackled him hard, driving him into the pavement and pinning him before he could roll. He fought like a cornered animal, spitting and cursing, trying to throw elbows.
“You fuckers think you own this town,” he snarled.
I tightened my grip. “You came after civilians.”
He laughed, wild and ugly. “You started it!”
Moore’s boots hit the pavement beside us. “No,” he said calmly. “You did.”
The guy thrashed again, then went still as the weight of inevitability settled in. Sirens surrounded us now. Officers moved in, cuffing him fast, hauling him to his feet.
“Have fun in prison,” Cookie called out cheerfully from nearby.
The guy twisted, spitting toward us as they dragged him away. “Fuck the Vultures!”
“Original,” Blaze muttered.