Black leather.
Silver rings.
And a patch Riley recognized even though she had never belonged anywhere herself.
Hells Angels.
The woman was badly injured.
A piece of broken metal had torn into her thigh, and blood was spreading rapidly through the rainwater.
Riley froze.
She knew exactly what she should do.
Walk away.
But the woman opened her eyes.
Storm-gray eyes stared directly into Riley's.
"Gas," the woman whispered. "Get back, kid."
Riley shook her head.
"Shut up."
She grabbed the motorcycle.
It didn't move.
She tried again.
Nothing.
The machine might as well have been made of concrete.
Then Riley spotted a length of steel pipe lying nearby.
She dragged it across the pavement and shoved it beneath the motorcycle frame.
Using the broken curb as a fulcrum, she pushed down with everything she had.
The motorcycle lifted.
Two inches.
Then four.
Riley screamed.
"Pull your leg out!"
The woman gritted her teeth and dragged herself free.
Riley released the pipe.
The motorcycle slammed back onto the pavement.
Then Riley saw the blood.
Too much.
She ripped her flannel shirt apart and wrapped the fabric around the woman's thigh.
She found a broken foot peg and used it as a makeshift windlass.
One turn.
Two.
The woman screamed.
Riley kept twisting.
"Hold on."
Another turn.
The bleeding slowed.
Then stopped.
Riley collapsed beside her.
The woman reached for her wrist.
"Roxanne," she whispered.
"Riley."
Sirens approached in the distance.
Riley immediately stood.
She grabbed her backpack.
Roxanne's fingers tightened around her wrist.
"Don't run."
But Riley was already disappearing into the darkness.
The Hunt
For four days, Riley lived like a hunted animal.
She moved from the overpass to the industrial district, sleeping behind abandoned warehouses and eating whatever she could find.
But something had changed.
The motorcycle club was searching for her.
Everywhere she went, she heard whispers.
Men were asking questions.
Bikers were moving through alleys.