Dropping to her knees beside the dying beast of a motorcycle, she met the woman's storm-gray eyes. There was no panic in them, just a cold, hard assessment.
"Gas," the woman rasped. "Going to catch. Get back, kid."
"Shut up," Riley grunted. She grabbed the scalding handlebars and pulled. Nothing. It was like trying to lift a bank vault.
"Leave it," the woman coughed, her head lolling.
Riley scrambled frantically, finding a heavy steel pipe left behind by city workers. She shoved one end under the bike’s frame, used the shattered curb as a fulcrum, and threw her entire body weight onto it. The massive engine block groaned. The bike lifted.
"Pull your leg out!" Riley screamed.
With a raw snarl, the woman dragged her trapped leg free just as Riley let go. The bike slammed back down. Riley ripped the top layer of her flannel shirt, grabbed a snapped foot peg from the debris, and wrapped the soaked fabric high around the woman’s thigh. She tied a crude knot and began to twist.
One turn. Two. The woman screamed.
"I know, I know," Riley chanted, twisting a third time. The bleeding stopped.
The woman stared up at her, chalk white. She reached out with a silver-ringed hand and grabbed Riley’s wrist with iron intent.
"Roxanne," the woman breathed. "Riley," the kid whispered back.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Riley’s survival instinct snapped back. Cops. The youth authority. She ripped her wrist away, grabbed her backpack, and melted into the shadows just as flashing lights painted the concrete.
"Don't run," Roxanne whispered to the empty air.
Four days. Four days of jumping at every loud engine and keeping her head buried under her oversized hood.
Riley had relocated to the industrial district, a wasteland of rusted shipyards and abandoned warehouses. The homeless network was a sprawling, invisible organism, and what it saw right now was terrifying. The club was out. Not just prospects running errands—the heavy hitters. They were tearing the downtown grid apart, shaking down hustlers and tearing through alleys.