The Harley roared to life beneath them, the engine’s guttural growl vibrating through the air. The rope bit into my wrists. If he gunned the throttle, I’d be dragged across the asphalt like a carcass. Skin would shred. Bones might break. I might not survive.
But then I thought of my father’s ashes—how this man might scatter them—and I knew I’d despise myself forever if I bowed my head to him.
Maxwell turned, his voice mocking.
"Better shout your apology loud enough for me to hear it!"
The throttle twisted. The bike lurched forward. My body jerked violently, feet scrambling to keep up. A second later, my legs failed me, and I hit the ground hard.
The world blurred. My arms, waist, and cheek tore open against the rough concrete, blood smearing in my wake.
"Stop!"
A black Rolls-Royce Phantom sedan burst through the school gates, tires screaming. It slammed into the Harley’s path, forcing Maxwell into a hard stop.
Helmet off, he stared, stunned, at the man stepping out of the official car—Grant Thompson, commander in a green military uniform, flanked by two crisp young officers.
