TESSA.
Engines were rumbling all around me, riders revving just to flex before the race. I stepped away from the circle, dragging at my gloves, trying to shake out the nerves. That’s when I caught two Fangs leaning against their bikes, talking in a low tone.
“Change of route… they won’t see it coming… The cops know the decoy street.” One of them said.
I froze. They thought they were slick, but I heard every word. Fifth Street wasn’t part of the official route, they were trying to bait us.
The sound of bikes faded for a second, replaced by a heavy pounding in my head: the memory of Damien slamming his bike into mine during a race. He walked away that night without a scratch and would have laughed about it after.
Not again. No way I was letting him or his crew blindside us like that.
I
