Mia watched Hunter still tearing along the interstate.
He hadn't turned off onto any side road.
Curious as she was, she kept quiet.
She simply wrapped her arms tight around Hunter's waist, even resting her head against his back.
The moment he gunned it, he left the biker gang far behind.
Before long, though, Hunter realized he might have been too optimistic.
Vroom—vroom!
The roar of motorcycles behind him never faded.
If anything, it felt closer.
A burly Redneck on a Dodge Tomahawk soon shot to the front.
He locked onto Hunter and wouldn't let go.
Through the mirror, Hunter caught sight of that outrageous machine and felt a spark of fascination.
Plenty of riders think the legendary Tomahawk looks cool.
But hardly any biker gangs actually ride one on the road.
Reason: it's just too heavy.
In theory the Tomahawk tops out above 600 kph, yet it costs five or six hundred grand.
For that money you could buy most luxury cars in the States.
You could even pick up a small plane.
So only the most hard-core fanatics ever buy it.
The bike alone weighs nearly 700 kilos.
Handling that mass nimbly is no joke.
Most riders prefer Harleys or Indians.
Even when gangs go Dodge, they skip the Tomahawk.
At least, Hunter had never seen a gang member ride one—until now.
'Hahaha!'
The burly Redneck laughed wildly.
Using the Tomahawk's brute power, he rapidly closed the gap.
'Hey, yellow monkey…'
'This ain't a place for your kind!'
'Hey, girl…'
'Tonight let us show you what a real man feels like!'
Hearing the lewd taunts, Hunter noticed
the biker fighting his handlebars, trying to ram Hunter's bike.
Hunter's heart sank; the speedo already read 140 mph.
His old classic obviously couldn't match the Dodge.
Still, he'd just had it repaired; for a short burst 150, 180—even 200—was doable.
Not for long, though—this was a vintage machine.
He swerved, barely dodging the gang member's charge.
He realized he'd badly underestimated the gang's bikes
and overestimated his own ride.
Originally he'd planned to blast down the highway
until he neared one of California's speed-trap zones.
Once the Highway Patrol showed, the gang would scatter and he'd be free.
Now it looked like he'd be caught before reaching the nearest trap.
Tense, but not panicked—
his Driving Skill had hit lv3 that afternoon, giving him confidence.
With each level the Proficiency System raised,
Hunter gained more than a free stat point and a cubic meter of private space;
he also soaked up driving know-how and technique.
Thanks to that, he felt almost fused with the old bike;
from its engine note he could sense
its exact condition.
After another quick dodge of the Redneck's ram,
Hunter told Mia softly, 'Hold on tight!'
Feeling her arms cinch his waist,
he twisted the throttle. The bike, already at 150 mph, surged again.
In seconds the needle climbed past 170.
Whoosh!
Whoosh!
He caught up to a car a few hundred yards ahead, flicked the tail, and blew past.
Then he opened the throttle wider and shot by another one a hundred yards beyond.
The sea wind kept slapping Hunter's face; right now his heart was pounding wildly.
The intense thrill of that extreme speed made the thirty-plus-year good boy he'd been in his previous life feel more exhilarated than ever.
Vroom!
The roar of an engine quickly sounded again from behind.
With a flash of bright light Hunter knew the Redneck biker on the Dodge Tomahawk had caught up.
His speed was still climbing—already past 180 and pushing toward 200.
Even on a freeway, anything over 120 on a bike is seriously dangerous.
Bikes are built so they can outrun most sports cars, even supercars.
But when real trouble hits, a bike's basically zero protection means one solid hit and you're toast.
Probably few biker gangs ever dare push past 150.
While keeping the bike under control Hunter kept overtaking cars on the freeway, hunting for a chance to break away.
At the same time he split his attention to the mirrors, watching the road behind.
Soon he noticed.
Only a handful of bikers were still hanging on, closing from dozens of metres back.
Within ten metres there was just the Redneck on the Tomahawk, cursing nonstop.
"Old man, since you're asking for death, don't blame me!"
They tore along the freeway for a good twenty or thirty kilometres.
Hunter never spotted a California Highway Patrol speed trap, but he felt his old bike start to shudder and rattle.
He knew the vintage machine couldn't keep up the crazy speed much longer.
He glanced again at those Hell's Angels bikers—especially the Redneck on the Tomahawk—still glued to him within ten metres.
If the Tomahawk weren't so heavy, the guy would already have sideswiped him more than once and knocked him off.
Seeing that, Hunter's anger flared.
Spotting an off-ramp not far ahead, he twisted the throttle again and the bike surged.
Gripping the bars tight, he shot past a truck, used it as a shield, and veered down the ramp.
With a howl of the engine he vanished from the gang's sight…