Vroom!
The motorcycle engine roared to life.
Hunter, having already leveled his Driving skill to Lv 3, had thoroughly tamed this mechanical beast. The massive influx of proficiency data in his brain made him feel like the bike was an extension of his own body.
Like an arrow released from a bow, he shot out of the parking lot, carrying Mia toward her home.
At first, Mia was worried. The bike looked ancient, a patchwork of rusted metal and cheap repairs. She braced herself for a bumpy, bone-rattling ride.
But as they merged onto the main road, she was stunned.
The ride was fast and incredibly stable. Not a single wobble.
It was obvious that this Chinese-American boy she had just started to notice wasn't just a mechanic. He was a veteran rider with serious skills.
Whoosh!
The wind howled past her helmet, mixing with the growl of the engine.
Suddenly, Mia felt a pang of envy. She wanted a bike of her own.
The salty sea breeze whipping through the vents of her helmet, slapping gently against her face... it was a freedom she rarely felt inside the cage of a car.
They sped through the sprawling, interconnected highways of Los Angeles.
In no time, they had covered nearly ten miles.
Mia's house wasn't far now.
But then, the atmosphere changed.
A menacing rumble—dozens of heavy engines roaring in unison—echoed from a nearby ramp.
Hunter frowned.
Checking his rearview mirror, he saw them.
A massive swarm of motorcycles had appeared on the highway behind them. There were dozens, maybe nearly a hundred of them.
And they weren't just cruising. The moment they spotted Hunter's lone bike, the pack accelerated.
Within seconds, the lead riders were closing in on their tail.
Hunter was still assessing the threat when Mia's panicked voice shouted in his ear.
"Oh god, Hunter!"
"Faster! Go faster!"
"Find a side road! Get off the highway! We have to lose them!"
"It's the Hells Angels!"
The Hells Angels?!
Hunter froze for a microsecond as Hunter's memories surfaced.
He quickly scanned the information, and his expression turned grim.
The Hells Angels. The most notorious, violent, and aggressive outlaw motorcycle club in the United States and Canada.
Originally formed by WWII veterans and hippies during the Cold War era, they had evolved into a full-blown criminal syndicate.
Clad in leather cuts and sporting overgrown beards, many of them fit the stereotype: obese, rude, white men who looked like they hadn't showered in weeks.
They loved tearing across North America on their Harleys, terrorizing highways, speeding, and forcing random drivers into "races."
If it were just noise pollution and traffic violations, that would be one thing.
But after the Cold War ended, factions of these "road warriors" organized into proper gangs.
In Hunter's memory, the LA chapter of the Hells Angels wasn't the top predator in the city's complex gang ecosystem. But on the open highway? They were kings.
Their favorite pastime was swarming lone vehicles, forcing them off the road or into a race, and then tormenting the losers. Verbal abuse, physical assault, and—far too often—sexual violence against women were their trademarks.
Los Angeles, the second most chaotic city in America after New York, was their playground. With drugs rampant, high-as-a-kite Angels causing highway havoc was a weekly news story.
And now, late at night, Hunter and Mia were alone on a bike with them.
Seeing the pack fan out to encircle them, Hunter's heart sank.
They were being hunted.
Through the mirror, he saw the lead bikes closing the gap to just a few meters. He also noticed something else: leather holsters strapped to the front forks of their bikes.
Guns.
A coarse, mocking voice from the lead rider—a massive white man—drifted over the wind.
"HAHAHA!"
"Hey little lady! Out for a joyride with your boyfriend?"
"Too bad he's useless! Look at him—too weak, too small!"
"Come over to Big Daddy! We got plenty of real men here! Guaranteed to satisfy you all night long!"
The vile insults, thick with slang and malice, assaulted their ears.
Mia had grown up with Dom and his crew. She was no stranger to trash talk. But hearing herself being sexually harassed by a pack of strangers made her chest heave with rage.
Hunter knew the score. They were outnumbered. Showing fear or anger—or shouting back—would only excite these predators.
He kept his voice calm, raising it just enough to be heard over the wind.
"Hold on tight. I'm speeding up."
"Okay!"
Mia, who was already holding his waist, tightened her grip until her knuckles turned white.
Feeling her secure, Hunter twisted the throttle.
VROOM!
The old motorcycle, pushed to its limit, erupted with surprising power.
The engine screamed as they shot forward, instantly putting distance between them and the laughing bikers.
But Hunter didn't do what Mia suggested. He didn't turn off onto a side road.
He knew that these bikers knew the back alleys and side streets of LA far better than he did. Getting trapped in a narrow, unlit road was a death sentence.
The interstate was the safest place.
Why? Because the LAPD and California Highway Patrol loved setting up speed traps on the interstate.
Finding a cop was their only way out.
Fortunately, Hunter's rigorous repairs over the last five days paid off. The major mechanical issues of the bike had been resolved.
While his old machine couldn't match the raw horsepower of the Angels' Harleys, Indians, and custom choppers, it had one advantage: agility.
Once they hit 75 mph (120 km/h), those heavy American cruisers started to lose stability. They were built for cruising, not high-speed chases.
Furthermore, the Angels clearly didn't expect Hunter to stay on the highway.
Usually, terrified prey would panic and dive onto the nearest exit ramp, heading for smaller, darker roads. There, the poor road conditions and lack of knowledge would doom them, allowing the pack to corner them for their sick amusement.
But Hunter stayed the course.
Watching the speedometer climb past 80 mph and still rising, the bikers realized their mistake.
Cursing into the wind, they gunned their engines. They knew that tonight, they had picked a difficult target.