Mia clung to Hunter, burying her face into his back as he blasted down the interstate instead of taking a side road.
She was curious about his choice, but she didn't question it. She just tightened her grip around his waist.
With a sudden burst of speed, Hunter pulled away from the main pack of bikers.
But his optimism was short-lived.
Vroom! Vroom!
The roar of engines behind them didn't fade. In fact, it was getting louder.
A few moments later, a massive redneck biker surged ahead of the pack, closing the gap with terrifying speed.
Hunter glanced in the rearview mirror and his eyes widened.
The guy was riding a Dodge Tomahawk.
This legendary motorcycle was a monster. In theory, it could hit speeds of over 300 mph (480 km/h) thanks to its V10 Viper engine. But with a price tag of over half a million dollars, seeing one on the road was rarer than seeing a unicorn.
For that price, you could buy a fleet of luxury cars or a small plane.
More importantly, the Tomahawk weighed nearly 1,500 pounds (680 kg).
It was a tank on two wheels. While fast in a straight line, maneuvering it was a nightmare. That was why most outlaw bikers stuck to Harleys or Indians. Even the rich ones rarely touched the Tomahawk for actual street riding.
Hunter had never seen a gang member crazy enough to ride one in a chase.
"HAHAHA!"
Laughing maniacally, the hulking redneck used the Tomahawk's raw horsepower to reel Hunter in.
"Hey, yellow monkey!"
"You're in the wrong neighborhood!"
"And hey, sweetheart..."
"Come with us tonight! We'll show you what a real man feels like!"
The vile insults drifted over the wind, accompanied by the aggressive swerving of the massive bike. The rider was trying to ram them.
Hunter's heart sank. He checked the speedometer.
They were already doing over 90 mph (145 km/h).
His old junker bike had been patched up, but sustained speeds of 100-110 mph were pushing it to the breaking point. It wouldn't last long.
Hunter swerved sharply, narrowly dodging a sideswipe from the Tomahawk.
He realized he had miscalculated. He had underestimated the quality of the gang's bikes and overestimated his own durability.
His original plan—drag them down the highway until they hit a speed trap—was failing. At this rate, the bike would rattle apart or he'd get rammed off the road before they saw a single cop.
Despite the danger, Hunter remained calm.
His Level 3 Driving Skill was his anchor.
Every time he leveled up, the System didn't just give him stats. It downloaded knowledge and "feel" directly into his brain.
Right now, Hunter felt a symbiotic connection with the machine beneath him. Through the vibrations of the handlebars and the pitch of the engine, he could sense exactly how much the bike could take.
Dodging another ram attempt from the redneck, Hunter shouted over his shoulder.
"Hold on!"
Feeling Mia's grip tighten, Hunter twisted the throttle to the stop.
The old bike screamed, pushing past 100 mph (160 km/h).
In seconds, they hit 105 mph.
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
Hunter wove through traffic, overtaking a sedan with a fluid swerve, then shooting past another car a hundred meters ahead.
The sea wind slapped his face. His heart hammered in his chest.
For a guy who had been a "good boy" for thirty years in his past life, this lethal adrenaline rush was intoxicating.
VROOOM!
A blinding headlight filled his mirrors. The Tomahawk was back.
The redneck was relentless. His speed was climbing past 110 mph, aiming for 120.
On a motorcycle, anything over 80 mph was dangerous. Over 100 mph was a death wish. At these speeds, protective gear was just a suggestion. One crash meant instant death.
Most bikers, even gang members, wouldn't dare push past 100 mph in heavy traffic.
Hunter kept weaving, his eyes flicking between the road ahead and the mirrors.
The main pack had fallen behind, unable or unwilling to match the suicidal pace. Only a few die-hards remained within a hundred meters.
But the Tomahawk rider was right on top of him, less than thirty feet away and screaming obscenities.
"Old bastard," Hunter muttered, his eyes narrowing. "You want to die? Fine."
They had been sprinting for nearly fifteen miles. Still no cops.
The old bike was starting to shudder. The engine sounded like it was gargling gravel. It was at its limit.
But the redneck was still there, buzzing around him like a lethal hornet, trying to clip his tires with that massive, clumsy machine.
Hunter's patience snapped.
Up ahead, he spotted an exit ramp.
Right in front of the ramp, a large semi-truck was cruising in the right lane.
Hunter gritted his teeth and pushed the engine into the red zone one last time.
The bike surged forward.
He shot past the semi-truck, cutting in front of it with inches to spare.
Using the massive truck as a visual shield to block the bikers' line of sight, Hunter violently banked the bike to the right, diving onto the exit ramp at the last possible second.
Vroom!
By the time the Tomahawk and the other bikers roared past the truck, Hunter and Mia had vanished into the darkness of the off-ramp, leaving the gang speeding down the highway with no target in sight.