Engines scream. Tires shriek.
The thunder of motorcars erupts across the frozen street, chasing the black blur of Rhett's Ducati.
The snow-slick pavement gleams under low light, treacherous and wet, but Rhett weaves through it like a ghost riding a missile.
Inside a black Porsche, Ishmael seethes. "Faster!" he snaps.
Zev grits his teeth and slams the gear forward. The speedometer needle surges—eighty, ninety—yet the Ducati ahead slips farther out of reach.
His eyes flicker with frustration, though his face remains impassive.
Raka had lost his mind over a woman—abandoning protocol, turning rogue. Who the hell is she?
Behind Rhett, Neva clings to him, her open hair whipping across her face like lashes. The sheer speed steals her breath. She dares a look back—dark SUVs tearing through fog, shadows streaking between the trees like black wolves.
The fear that grips her isn't the speed—it's them. The wolves closing in.
She tightens her arms around Rhett's waist, heart hammering.
She closes her eyes tightly, and prays quietly against the howling storm inside her heart: Don't let them catch us! Don't let them catch us!
Rhett glances at the right side mirror—flashes of headlights, black monsters on wheels.
Screeching tires slice through the fog. His eyes cut forward. He punches the throttle.
The Ducati screams.
Two-hundred.
"Goddamn it!" Ishmael slams a fist against the dash. "Out! Move!"
"What?!" Zev twists, confused.
"I said get the hell out!"
Zev barely halts the Porsche before Ishmael throws open the door. He lunges into the driver's seat, slams it shut, and rockets forward. The Porsche fishtails, snow flying as it blasts through the dark.
Zev doesn't blink. He storms into a waiting Range Rover and jerks the door open. "Drive."
Ishmael's eyes burn as he hammers the accelerator—190 mph and climbing. His grip on the wheel is white-knuckled.
Up ahead, Rhett spots the fork.
Left: a narrow trail swallowed in mist. Right: a wrecked truck lies mangled, crushed beneath snow and fallen pine.
No time.
He veers left, tires skimming the edge of the road, vanishing between skeletal trees clawing at the sky.
Fog thickens. Shadows curl. Silence sharpens.
Ishmael skids to the wreck, brakes screaming. He swerves, reverses hard, and slides after them—right into the void Rhett carved.
---
Neva's fingers are stiff and raw.
Her breath hitches, white puffs fogging the lens. Her heart pounds like a war drum.
'Let it end. Please, God.'
Rhett hears the growl—thirty yards behind. He slows slightly.
The fog here is denser, a curtain of vapor. One SUV, then two—closing.
He reaches back with his left hand, cold fingers wrapping around the grip of a pistol jammed under his jacket. Wind slashes through his helmet vents. His breath fogs the visor.
He steadies.
He leans slightly, muscles coiling in readiness for the swerve.
He swivels the Ducati.
And fires—
Neva shrieks—clinging onto Rhett.
The gun kicks back. The shot rips through the air.
Ishmael jerks the wheel right. Tires screech. The bullet slams into the back door, metal bending with a sick crunch.
Another shot. Glass explodes behind him. Shards rain down.
Ishmael ducks.
The Porsche halts in a shriek of smoke and ice.
"Open fire!" a voice yells.
Gunshots erupt—flashes of light and fire.
Rhett curses and spins the Ducati again. Gravel sprays.
"Cease fire!" Ishmael barks into his earpiece.
The barrage halts. The silence is louder.
"Box them in," he orders. "Don't shoot."
Not while she's with him.
Rhett doesn't hesitate. He raises the pistol again—aims through the rearview mirror.
And shoots—
The bullet hits dead center.
The windshield of the SUV ahead shatters. The driver slumps. Blood smears the inside of the glass. The car careens sideways—metal grinding against road, sparks flying.
The SUV behind tries to swerve, but it's too late. The fog blinds, the ice betrays.
A loud, violent crash rumbles shaking the ground beneath.
Three SUVs collide in an iron avalanche.
One spins into a tree.
Oil spills. Engines hiss. Smoke and fire bloom from the wreckage.
Rhett doesn't look back.
Five remain.
In Zev's vehicle, the driver stares in horror. "What the hell—?"
Crack. The windshield snaps. The man jolts, a red bloom spreading across his chest. His foot lifts.
The SUV wobbles.
Zev lunges, grabs the wheel, kicks the man's foot off the brake, and slams it down.
"Shit! He's hit!" someone yells from the back seat.
Zev presses his hand to the wound—blood pulses warm and fast between his fingers. "Stay with me!"
The man gasps, eyes wide, already fading.
"Zev, are you hit?" Ishmael snarls.
"No," Zev snaps. "But he—"
"Then stop acting like it!"
Zev's jaw clenches.
It fractures—the cord between loyalty and humanity.
"What now?" another man asks, voice shaking.
Zev doesn't answer right away. His eyes burn.
"Throw him in the back. We finish this."
---
Far ahead, Rhett tears through a forgotten road swallowed by frost. Trees rise like sentinels. Snow whirls. The air grows colder.
And then—
A hill. A crooked sign buried in slush:
Dead End.
Rhett doesn't blink.
"Hold on," he says low.
Neva grabs him tighter, her breath trembling against his back.
He revs the engine. Tires growl. They surge upward.
Seconds later, the SUVs reach the same slope. Ishmael leads. His eyes narrow as he sees the Ducati—perched on the edge of a cliff.
Below: a violent, roaring river. Waves crash against jagged rocks, green-blue and furious.
The cliff is a trap.
Neva stares down, shivering. "What now?"
Rhett doesn't answer.
He stares at the sky. The water.
The wind howls in his helmet. His heart slams against his ribs.
A heartbeat.
Then another—
He grips the throttle. "Hold tight, Angel,"
She instinctively obeys.
Ishmael jumps out, too late. "No—!"
The engine roars.
And the Ducati soars—
Over the cliff.
Gravity vanishes.
Neva screams.
A loud splash echoes.
Bodies hit the water like stones. The river swallows them.
Ishmael freezes, horror splintering across his face.
The rest of the SUVs screech to a halt.
Doors open. Guns raise. But it's pointless.
Only the sound of rushing water answers them.
The rest of the SUVs screech to a halt.
Doors open. Guns raise. But it's pointless.
Only the sound of rushing water answers them.
Zev steps forward, eyes scanning the depths. The river below churns and crashes. There's no sign. No movement.
"Get them," Zev mutters. "Jump."
The men hesitate.
"NOW!"
They dive.
Their bodies vanish into the ice-ripped current, swallowed by the freezing green river.