Chapter 7 - The Mountain Run
The Ducati roared to life with a deafening, guttural howl that reverberated off the subterranean walls. Julian kicked the bike into first gear and gunned the throttle, shooting out of the underground bay like a missile. The morning sun was completely swallowed now by heavy, bruised storm clouds rolling over the ridge.
The estate sat perched on the cliffs of Blackwood Pass—a treacherous, winding stretch of two-lane asphalt that carved through sheer granite on one side and a five-hundred-foot vertical drop into the churning gorge on the other.
Julian leaned low over the handlebars, the speedometer needle sweeping past eighty, then ninety. The wind tore at his suit jacket, freezing the sweat on his brow. Half a mile ahead, through the thinning mist, the taillights of the heavy SUV flared bright red as it cut through a hairpin turn.
He closed the distance rapidly. The motorcycle had the speed, but the armored Rover had sheer mass. Michael knew it.
As Julian pulled within thirty feet of the rear bumper, the Range Rover suddenly swerved hard across the double yellow line. Michael stomped on the brakes, attempting to use the vehicle's massive steel bumper to crush the motorcycle against the granite cliff face.
Julian dropped his knee, leaning the bike violently to the right, slipping into the narrow gravel shoulder between the SUV's passenger side and the abyss. For a terrifying second, his rear tire lost traction, spinning out over the edge, kicking pebbles down into the void.
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Through the tinted passenger window of the SUV, Julian saw Lily's pale, terrified face.
Michael looked over, their eyes locking through the glass. The scarred man didn't look angry; he looked hollowed out, an empty shell driven by pure vengeance. With a violent jerk of the wheel, Michael sideswiped the bike.
