Vroom!
The old engine roared.
With Driving Skill at lv3 and countless miles under his belt, Hunter had tamed the relic.
He shot forward, Mia clinging on, heading for her place.
At first she feared the rattling bike would jolt her bones.
But once rolling she found it swift and smooth, not a tremor.
The Chinese-American kid she'd lately noticed was clearly a seasoned rider.
Vroom!
Wind and engine filled her ears.
She suddenly wanted a bike of her own.
Salty sea air slipped through the helmet, stinging her skin—something she rarely felt behind a car window.
They tore along Los Angeles' web of roads.
In minutes they'd covered a dozen kilometers.
Her neighborhood was almost in sight when a thunder of engines rose from a nearby highway.
Hunter blinked.
Mirrors showed scores—no, hundreds—of bikes bearing down.
The pack gained speed.
The leaders closed the gap fast.
Hunter frowned; then Mia's urgent voice rang in his ear.
"Crap, Hunter!"
"Throttle up!"
"Take a side street—lose them!"
"They're Hell's Angels!"
"Hell's Angels?"
The words triggered memories; he skimmed them and his face hardened.
Hell's Angels—most feared, brutal, lawless biker gang across the U.S. and Canada.
A full-blown outlaw club.
They originated in the Cold War era as a special club founded by American and Canadian hippies.
Members of the Hell's Angels wear black leather jackets and sport long sideburns.
Most are burly, foul-mouthed white men who refuse to bathe.
They love roaring down North America's highways, racing and breaking speed limits wherever they go.
If that were all, it wouldn't be so bad.
At worst they'd be a public nuisance and a serious traffic hazard.
But after the Cold War ended, some of these road warriors turned their gangs into organized crime outfits.
Soon they became a full-fledged criminal gang.
In Hunter's predecessor's memory, compared with Los Angeles' immigrant gangs, the Hell's Angels weren't especially dangerous.
But meeting them on the open road was never good news.
Their favorite sport is to force cars they encounter to race them, bullying and herding them into competition.
Then they heap abuse, taunts, and humiliation on the drivers they easily outrun.
Cases of Angels raping women are disturbingly common.
Los Angeles supposedly hosts a chapter, and with the city's chaos—second only to New York nationwide—drugs are everywhere.
Angels high on narcotics tearing up the roads has made headlines more than once.
Late at night, Hunter had Mia on the back of his bike when they crossed paths with them.
As the bikers began to close in, Hunter's heart sank; he knew they'd marked Mia and him as prey.
Through his mirror he clearly saw Angels' bikes, gun barrels mounted up front, barely a few meters behind.
Then the voice of the hulking white leader rang out, loud and arrogant.
"Haha!"
"Hey, babe, out for a midnight ride with your boyfriend?"
"Too bad he's so weak and scrawny."
"Come to Big Brother—plenty of real men here who can satisfy you."
The vulgar words, laced with local slang and an accent, reached Hunter and Mia's ears.
Though Mia had grown up around Dominic and his rough crew, she still flushed with anger at the insult.
Hunter knew they were outnumbered; showing fear or rage would only excite these thugs.
So he simply raised his voice slightly and told Mia, "Hold on tight—I'm opening her up."
"Got it!"
Mia already had her arms around his waist; at his words she squeezed even tighter.
Feeling the pressure around his waist, he twisted the throttle hard.
With a roar the vintage bike beneath him surged with unexpected power.
The engine howled as he rapidly widened the gap.
However, Hunter didn't dart onto a side road as Mia had suggested.
He knew the Angels knew every alley of Los Angeles better than he did.
Staying on the interstate was the safest bet.
LAPD loved setting speed traps and patrols on the interstate, ticketing anyone over the limit.
Only by reaching them could they be safe.
Luckily, over the past few days Hunter had overhauled the old bike his predecessor left him.
Most of its niggling faults were now fixed.
So although his machine couldn't match the Angels' Harleys, Indians, or Dodges,
once all their speeds topped a hundred and twenty, those heavy brutes lost agility.
Besides, the Angels clearly hadn't expected Hunter to break the pattern.
Instead of panicking off the highway onto some side road like past victims,
he stayed on the interstate.
Prey with inferior bikes, unfamiliar roads, and rough pavement would quickly be run down and turned into toys for abuse and laughter.
Yet Hunter kept nudging past one-twenty, still accelerating.
Cursing up a storm, they knew tonight they'd run into prey that was harder to handle than expected…