Burman Raceway.
Several motorcycles shot down the track like arrows loosed from a bow. A gleaming Harley led the pack, executing a flawless drift that left its pursuers far behind.
The Harley roared through the curve, unyielding as a bullet, streaking toward the finish line.
"Sherry!! Sherry!! Sherry!!"
The crowd lining the track roared, arms waving in frenzied adoration.
The Harley slid into a dramatic stop past the finish line. Sherry planted a long leg, steadied the bike, and removed her helmet. A cascade of silver curls tumbled over her shoulders.
The second-place rider arrived moments later, skidding to a halt before her.
"F*ck you, b**ch," the helmeted rider tilted his head, voice muffled. "Go to h*ll."
Sherry's lips curved. She tossed her silver hair from her forehead, winked, and blew a triumphant whistle.
The rider spat, dismounted, and stalked away, helmet in hand.
Racing in Burman was inseparable from gambling. Bets piled on the favorites; the heavier the wager, the bigger the payout. But since Sherry started racing, no one had touched the top spot. Every bet rode on her, and she welcomed them all, amassing a fortune.
The other riders seethed, powerless against her.
Sherry stepped off the track and lit a slim cigarette. A panicked white man came running.
"Sherry!"
"What is it, Sisev?"
Gasping for breath, Sisev thrust his phone at her. "The Big Boss…! Something happened to the Big Boss!!"
Sherry's expression sharpened. She took the phone, scrolling through the morning's news headlines.
Sisev watched her guarded eyes nervously. After all, the Big Boss had sponsored Sherry's rise, shielding her ever since. Many whispered about an affair between them.
Sherry crushed her barely-lit cigarette and tossed the phone back.
"Gather the men. North District. Now."
...
North District 2, Slik Street. A derelict steel mill.
The mill's rolling shutter was slammed shut, its center punched inward like a fist. Moonlight seeped through narrow windows, illuminating twisted steel beams.
Whirrrrr—CLANG!
The heavy shutter rolled upward. A massive man stood silhouetted against the moonlight, holding it aloft with one hand.
"Boss, it's done."
The giant addressed the darkness within.
"Hmm."
A low voice rumbled from the shadows.
Click. The weak flame of a lighter flared in the blackness, touching the tip of a cigarette, illuminating the lower half of a face.
A sharp, stubbled jawline. Serpentine golden eyes, momentarily ignited by the flame before vanishing as the lighter snapped shut.
Only the ember of the cigarette remained, pulsing in the dark.
The man flicked his fingers. The cigarette, still mostly unsmoked, tumbled from his grasp.
Whoosh!
As it hit the floor, gasoline ignited. Flames roared to life, engulfing the mill in an inferno.
The blaze illuminated the tall man standing amidst the flames, hands buried deep in his coat pockets. It also lit the corpse sprawled nearby—a single bullet hole in its forehead, features frozen in shock and rage, blood splattered across a supporting column now licked by fire.
The man stood tall, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. His black trench coat collar was turned up, grazing his jawline. He looked down at the body at his feet, his golden eyes reflecting the fire, their gaze colder than the leaping flames.
"…Boss."
The man holding the shutter called out.
The figure bathed in fire turned his head slightly, casting a detached glance toward the entrance.
The giant flinched.
Flames began climbing the Boss's coat. He casually brushed them away and strode toward the exit.
Leather shoes hit the concrete outside. The shutter slammed shut behind him, sealing the inferno within.
The Boss clapped a heavy hand on his subordinate's neck, gave him a look, and pulled out another cigarette. He lit it, the tip glowing.
"Quit your yapping."
The subordinate rubbed his neck, not daring to complain. "Boss, the cops are coming. Those Brutal Gang bastards called it in."
As if on cue, the wail of sirens pierced the night, mingling with the roar of approaching motorcycles.
The Boss grunted. He walked to the roadside, plucked a Harley Davidson hidden in the tall grass with one hand, and swung a leg over it.
Two motorcycles. Two men. Gone in moments.
...
Hours later, the steel mill fire was extinguished.
Sherry, still in her racing leathers, leaned against her Harley, patiently enduring police questioning. Sisev stood nearby, trembling under the officers' scrutiny, his stammered answers stretching the interrogation by half an hour.
Once the police left, Sherry pushed off her bike. Ignoring Sisev, she ducked under the charred remains of the shutter and stepped into the mill.
Sisev followed.
Hosed down by fire crews, the mill was a dripping, blackened ruin.
"The body's with the cops. What now?" Sisev picked his way around puddles, stopping beside Sherry at a scorched support column.
The floor before it, where the corpse had lain, was burnt black.
Sherry scanned the area, her pale green eyes narrowing. She crouched, plucking a cigarette butt from the debris.
The ignition point. It was mostly charred, but close inspection revealed distinct bite marks on the filter.
Sherry rubbed the butt between her fingers, ash crumbling away. The bite marks belonged to a young man.
She bagged the evidence. Stepping over a puddle, she ran a hand over the blackened column. The blood was now uneven charcoal. Her eyes flickered. After a moment's silence, she withdrew her hand, dusting off the grime.
Sisev hovered nearby, carefully watching her expression, wisely keeping silent.
A shrill ringtone shattered the quiet. Sisev nearly jumped out of his skin.
Sherry pulled out her phone. The number made her expression tighten.
The ringing screamed. She answered. A torrent of French-laced shouting erupted, underscored by blaring alarms.
Sisev couldn't understand the words, but the sirens alone paled his face. "A… a fight?"
Sherry hung up.
"East District 2's causing trouble at our 'Steel Mill'," Sherry tilted her head toward her bike. "Get some brothers from nearby over there."
"East… East District? The Little Boss's men?"
"Who else?"
Sherry shrugged. As she spoke, she gathered her silver curls, tying them up to expose her slender neck.
Sisev watched her systematically check her gear—wrist guards, boots, pistol. The realization dawned. "Sherry… you're going yourself?"
"Obviously."
Sherry lowered her hands, a dangerous smile playing on her lips. A simple gesture, radiating lethal grace.
"But what about Burman?"
"They won't touch Burman."
Sherry pulled on her helmet, swung a leg over the Harley, and vanished in a cloud of exhaust, leaving Sisev with only those words.
Districts East 2 and West 2 fell under the Big Boss's domain. Sherry managed West 2; Louis managed East 2. Friction simmered, but fear of the Big Boss kept both sides in check.
As for Burman? The entire district was a cesspool—a gathering place for Mafia, street gangs, and illicit enterprises swimming in dirty money. Every power player had a stake; even wealthy merchants dipped their fingers in. Located in the South District, Burman was the fetid heart of London's underworld.
Louis wouldn't dare touch it lightly.
Sherry's Harley screamed through the streets, a streak of red tail light cutting the darkness, her silver hair whipping free from the helmet.
The distant crackle of gunfire grew louder. Sherry's eyes narrowed. Several motorcycles roared up behind her, pulling alongside.
One rider drew close. Jensen's voice, thick with fury, came through his helmet.
"They called back! Missed him!"
Jensen cursed, Spanish words lost under the engine's roar. "It was the Brutal Gang! They tipped off the cops!"
"Godd*mn it!"
Brutal Gang?
Sherry's pale green eyes narrowed. Without a word, she raised a hand, signaling Jensen and the others. The bikes slowed, fanning out.
Gunfire mixed with engine thunder. Sherry leaned hard into a turn, rounding a corner. Muzzle flashes lit the night like deadly firecrackers.
POOF!
A smoke grenade exploded on the street, thick fog swallowing visibility. Mafia guns spat fire.
An Irishman stood on a second-floor balcony, spraying the street with a machine gun. Bullets shredded metal barrels and brick walls, sending shrapnel flying.
Sherry bailed. She rolled, pistol drawn, and dove behind a stack of barrels as her Harley slammed into a lamppost and died.
Rat-a-tat-tat! Bullets ripped through the barrels behind her. Sherry discarded her helmet, racked her pistol's slide, her eyes cold and lethal.
The gunfire paused as the shooter reloaded. Sherry pivoted, gun rising. The Irishman swung his weapon—
CRACK!
Sherry's shot rang out first. The machine gun fell silent. The man crumpled, a hole in his skull, his weapon clattering to the balcony floor.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Gunfire erupted from the left. Sherry ducked. Shrapnel sparked off metal, whistling past her silver hair.
BANG!
A motorcycle roared down the adjacent street. The gunman went down. Jensen skidded to a stop, dragging the dead man by his collar.