Zubair ignored the creature under his skin and watched the three riders ahead.
Two closed from the sides, trying to force him into the center rut. The third held slightly ahead, throttle matched to their speed, waiting to make contact.
He had a skull tattoo up his throat, faded now but still visible in the glare. His posture was all confidence and training—arms relaxed, knees angled in like a racer.
Sera leaned forward, hands braced on the back of Zubair's seat. Her gaze swept across the bikers, her tone calm. "The one with the tattoo leads. The other two follow his line."
"Then we break his line," Zubair answered.
"Left fence line," Alexei called, watching the terrain.
"Left it is."
Zubair turned the wheel a fraction.
The Hummer drifted toward the edge of the road, where a row of leaning posts marked what used to be boundary wire. The earth there was harder, baked flat by sun and time.
The lead Saint adjusted too late.
