A black-and-white cruiser fell in behind the fleeing bikes. A gumball light flashed atop the car. Its siren screamed like a banshee.

A rookie, Officer Simon Jansen had never been in a high-speed chase before. He gripped the steering wheel tightly while flooring the gas pedal. As far as he could tell, he and his partner were leading the chase. His heart pounded with excitement. If they were lucky, they might even be the ones to capture the fugitives.

“Shoot the tires!” he shouted.

His partner, a twenty-year veteran named Kelly, drew his gun and leaned out the passenger-side window. He tried to get a bike in his sights, but balked at the expression of the petrified trader clinging to the rear of the bike. The terrified hostage, who was wearing wide suspenders, stared back at him. Kelly shook his head.

“No shot!”

The deputy commissioner’s voice blared from the cruiser’s radio.

“Back off,” he ordered. “They’ve got hostages.”

The bikes vanished into a midtown tunnel. The cruiser followed them into the tunnel, maintaining a safe distance. Fluorescent lights, mounted in the ceiling, lit up the tunnel—at least at first. To his surprise, Jansen saw his rear-view mirror go dark.

He glanced back.

“What’s going on with the lights?”

A wave of darkness seemed to be advancing through the tunnel, extinguishing every light it encountered. Not just the overhead lights, but also the headlights of every oncoming vehicle blinked out abruptly. A chill ran down the rookie’s spine as the encroaching darkness—which instilled an almost superstitious dread—caught up with the speeding cruiser. Their headlights burned out, the gumball blacked out, and the siren went silent.

The car’s engine sputtered and died.

What the—?

Out of the inky blackness, a shadowy shape roared past at high speed. An ebony cape flapped behind it.

Kelly’s jaw dropped.

“It can’t be…”

“The hell was that?” Jansen exclaimed. He had no idea what was happening.

“Oh, boy,” the veteran cop said. “You’re in for a show tonight.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The bikes shot out of the tunnel onto the highway. Bane led the way while the sandwich guy, Petrov, took up the rear.

Looking back over his shoulder, past his squirming hostage, the mercenary saw the streetlights exploding behind him, one by one, throwing the highway into darkness. The night was cloudy and starless—Petrov couldn’t see what was chasing them.

He frowned. This wasn’t part of the plan.

All at once, the bike’s engine choked and died. Swearing, he worked the throttle, but it was no good. Though he still sped forward, through sheer momentum, he was falling behind the rest of his team. Seeing a chance, the hostage behind him undid his straps and leapt from the back of the bike. Hitting the concrete, the capitalist parasite rolled to the side of the highway and clambered to his feet.

“Help!” he shouted. “Somebody, help me!”

As he continued to glide forward on the silent machine, Petrov drew his pistol. He wouldn’t be taken without a fight.