“The hell you say,” Red spits, with his visor up. “We busted him.” Red is bull-necked and broad-shouldered. Mean-looking. He sits lower on his bloodred Chopper than the others.

“I don’t know…” Wyatt pauses. “The way he rides…”

They watch the Rider slam on his brakes and skid into a corner. He swerves, accelerates hard and throws himself into the next jump—a fluid move—all finesse and grace and perfect balance.

“It can’t be,” Red insists. “It’s not possible.”

“It’s him,” Levi says, his voice muffled behind his visor. “Look at the byke.”

“How the hell—”

“I can take him from here.” Wyatt’s hand moves to his sling. “One clean shot.”

“You think he’s seen us?” Red asks.

“He’s seen nothin, dumb-ass. We’re uphill, against the sun.”

He’s right. The dirt valley Rider sees nothing but the track. His concentration is fixed on the next turn, his next jump. His silver byke flares in the morning sunlight. The Riders above watch him duel with the dust. He completes another free-floating jump, cool and sleek.

“Lemme do it. I swear I can take him.” Red swings off his byke, sling in hand. He squares his shoulders and takes aim.

“No,” Levi says, removing his helmet, placing it in the crook of his arm. He speaks out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes are narrow slits.

“No?”

“He means you couldn’t hit a tree from two yards.” Wyatt kicks out his byke stand and swings a long leg over his seat. “I’ll do it.”

Red throws Wyatt a defiant glare.

“I said no,” Levi repeats. “We fix him right this time. Up close and personal.”

“How close?”

“Close enough to get his blood on your face.”

“Hell, yeah!” Wyatt hoots.

“Damn straight!” Red yells.

—

He pulls up at the top of the last ramp and sits on his pale silver byke—a customized Drifter. He breathes hard and pellets of sweat stream down the small of his back. His riding suit is gray and caked in dirt. Gold sun goggles shield his eyes and an air-filter mask covers his mouth.

He turns his head, listening. A chill crawls up his spine. He concentrates on three Riders coming out of the sun, careening down the lava slope like the devil’s on their heels.

He knows them. The one on the white byke in particular. He can’t see his face, but there’s something in the way he rides, angled to the right. You get to know the way kids ride in the Race. That’s the way you beat them. By anticipating their next move.

The other two are dangerous, but the one on the white byke…

They keep coming.

Nothing stops them.

Time to haul ass.