Chapter one
Chapter 1 – Smoke and Steel
The roar of the Ducati wasn’t just noise; it was Victor Roman’s absolution. The wind knifed at his chest through the half-zipped leather jacket, chill and sharp, the scent of damp pine flooding his nose. The sky overhead was bruised and bleeding, streaks of burnt copper slashing into deep violet where the sun was sinking behind black mountains.
He twisted the throttle, forcing the bike to scream. It wasn’t enough to go fast; he wanted to go too fast, to push the edge until it crumbled. The Pacific Northwest road was slick with evening dew, two narrow lanes snaking around cliffs that plunged into shadowy ravines. Fir trees rose on either side like sentinels, their needles black in the dusk.
Victor’s eyes narrowed behind the visor. He felt every vibration of the Ducati in his spine and teeth. The engine was a savage thing between his legs, wanting to kill him if he let it. He wouldn’t let it, not yet.
His heart hammered in time with the pistons. Short dark hair stuck to his forehead inside the helmet. He exhaled hard, steamfogging the visor for an instant before the rushing wind cleared it.
He was running. He knew it. Running from them. From himself.
Even with the engine roaring, he could almost hear the men in tailored coats and black gloves, speaking softly in Russian, laying out what they’d do to him if they caught him. He could smell the acrid tang of gunpowder, see blood pooling on cheap linoleum. Memory pressed at him like a blade at his ribs.
He snarled and twisted the throttle further.
The front tire hummed along the centerline. A pothole loomed and he jerked the handlebars to dodge, feeling the chassis shudder. The rear wheel skipped, fishtailing for half a heartbeat before biting back down.
“Easy, suka,” he growled at the bike, breath ragged.
A switchback appeared ahead, tighter than he remembered. He leaned in, pressing his knee out, the boot sole scraping asphalt. He felt the gravel at the edge slide under him, treacherous as any enemy.
The Ducati howled.
And the road gave no forgiveness.
He caught the shoulder wrong. The front tire lost grip on the fine spread of loose gravel.
The world went sideways.
There was no time to correct. He felt the handlebars jerk out of his grip, metal slamming against his gloves. The bike bucked under him like a wounded animal. His vision spun.
For an instant it was all sound and color: the grinding scream of metal on pavement, the thunderous impact of the Ducati bouncing, the violent white slash of his own headlight carving circles in the dark.
Then he was airborne.
He felt his stomach lurch.
Time slowed.
He saw the road twist away under him, the fir trees a blur of black teeth against that dying sky. He had time for one useless thought:fuck.
Then the ground rose up and hit him.
He landed on his shoulder first, something popping with a wet crunch. Pain tore up his side in a white-hot bolt. His helmet cracked against the pavement with a thunderclap, vision flickering black at the edges.
Momentum carried him over. He rolled once, twice, the world flipping over itself, darkness and twilight trading places in dizzying reels. Gravel ripped his jacket open, tore at his skin.
He finally slid to a stop on his back.
Silence slammed down, so heavy it felt like being buried.
He lay there, chest heaving, fighting for breath that wouldn’t come. Each inhale was broken glass. His ribs felt like someone had split them with an axe. His mouth filled with a coppery tang. He coughed, spat, saw the blood splatter his cheek shield.
Somewhere off to his right, the Ducati lay on its side, smoking quietly. He heard the gentle ticking of the engine cooling. The headlight shone crazily into the trees, illuminating dark, wet branches that seemed to leer back at him.
The cold was creeping in from the pavement. He felt it in his bones, like death licking at his heels.
