The motorcycles exploded forward the second we pulled onto the next street.
Mike cursed and slammed his foot on the gas. The Jeep shot ahead so hard my back hit the seat.
“Hold on!” he yelled.
The engine roared as we raced through Beacon Hills. Behind us, the three motorcycles split apart with perfect timing. One moved to the left, another stayed behind us, and the third came from the right.
“They’re fast,” Lila whispered.
The streets were busy. Cars honked as Mike squeezed through traffic. A delivery van barely missed our front bumper. Someone shouted from the sidewalk. Pedestrians jumped away as the Jeep sped past them.
I grabbed the handle above the door to steady myself. “Can you lose them?”
“I’m trying!” Mike replied.
The motorcycles slipped between cars like they were riding
