CHAPTER 3
THE RIDER WITHOUT A NAME
The motorbike tore through the Paris night like a bullet of black steel. Streetlights smeared into glowing streaks as Lena clung to the rider, her nails digging into the leather of his jacket. The cold wind whipped her hair behind her like a warning flag.
She couldn't see his face — the tinted visor reflected nothing but the city flying past.
*Who are you? Who sent you?*
Her mind raced faster than the bike.
She glanced behind them.
The man in the black coat was already far, a shrinking silhouette swallowed by darkness. But the fear didn't fade. If anything, it sharpened.
The rider didn't speak. Didn't look back. Didn't slow.
They thundered across Pont Alexandre III — gold statues rising on either side, the Seine below them glimmering like a blade. Cars honked. People shouted. But the rider moved like someone who had rehearsed this escape a hundred times.
Lena finally found her voice.
"Where are you taking me?!"
The rider didn't answer.
Instead, he leaned sharply to the left, cutting through traffic, forcing a taxi to screech to a halt. Lena twisted around — two motorbikes had appeared behind them, gaining fast.
Her stomach dropped.
"Are they following us?" she yelled.
"Yes," the rider said. The voice was male — calm, controlled, terrifyingly focused. "Hold on."
It was the first thing he said.
And that scared her more than the chase.
They shot into a narrow side street where the buildings leaned inward like eavesdropping giants. One of the pursuing bikes clipped a metal trash bin, sending it flying. The crash echoed behind them.
The rider accelerated.
But Lena felt it — the faintest hesitation.
A risk calculation.
A moment of doubt.
He wasn't invincible.
He wasn't invulnerable.
He was scared too.
"Who are they?" she asked.
"The same people who were following you," he said. "People who don't like loose ends."
"What loose ends?! I don't know anything yet!"
"Exactly."
Lena's blood iced over.
The rider swerved violently, sparks flying as his boot scraped the pavement. They burst out onto a wider road, tires screaming. Paris unfolded in front of them — chaotic, magnificent, dangerous.
Sirens blared somewhere in the distance.
The rider muttered a curse under his breath.
"We're not going to make it," he said.
Lena's heart stopped. "Make what?"
"Plan A."
He reached down with one hand — the bike wobbled — and Lena clutched him harder. He pressed a button near the speedometer. Somewhere behind them, something metallic clinked and dropped.
A sudden explosion of sparks filled the street as the first pursuing bike hit it, skidding out violently.
"What was that?!" Lena cried.
"Insurance."
The last pursuing bike dodged the debris and kept coming, faster now.
The rider swore again, then pulled a sharp U-turn into a deserted underground parking entrance. It looked condemned — lights flickering, concrete cracked. The bike roared deeper inside, echoing off the cold walls.
Finally, he killed the engine.
Silence crashed around them.
Lena's breath was ragged. Her muscles trembled.
The rider dismounted, removed his helmet, and turned toward her.
Lena froze.
He was young — early thirties at most — with a harsh, angular beauty that felt dangerous. Storm-gray eyes. A scar near his jaw. A face that looked like it had seen too much, survived too much, and trusted nothing.
He extended a hand to help her off.
She ignored it and stepped back.
"Start talking," she said, voice trembling. "Who are you? Why did you bring me here?"
The man studied her for a long moment. Unreadable. Evaluating her the way a sniper evaluates a target.
"I'm the only person in this city who doesn't want you dead, Lena."
"How do you know my name?"
"I know a lot more than your name."
Her skin prickled.
He took a step closer. Not threatening — but close enough that she could smell leather and cold air on him.
"You're in the middle of something you don't understand," he said. "And you're out of time."
"Then explain it to me!"
He shook his head. "Not here. Not now."
He pointed toward the shadows of the garage.
"Because we're not alone."
Lena turned.
A figure stood at the far end of the underground lot.
Motionless.
Watching.
The rider grabbed her hand.
"Run."
And this time — Lena didn't argue.