by Pam Godwin
Horizontal oak wall panels surrounded the kitchen cabinets. A cosmetic facade. I reached above the refrigerator and punched a button. The panels beside the fridge rolled up like a garage door, revealing the elevator shaft hidden behind it.
I stepped into the lift, tapped the code in the keypad, and descended below ground.
The lift bounced to a stop. As the steel doors opened, the screams of an overworked engine slammed into my chest, the clamor reverberating off the walls of the confined space.
“Benny?” I shouted over the racket and weaved around tables and waist-high piles of junk. Circuit boards, flickering computer monitors, miscellaneous motorcycle parts, and greasy tools cluttered the gymnasium-sized basement. “Benny!”
Where the hell was my scatter-brained engineer? I passed Benny’s gaming area, a gaudy purple couch, and six widescreen TVs on the wall, but no Benny.
The rumble of the motor blasted from the enclosed garage at the far end. Didn’t mean Benny was in there, and I really didn’t want to make the damned walk to find out, the stitches in my leg pulling with every step. But I refused to limp. Refused to show a hint of weakness, even in the privacy of my home.
Heading that way, I grabbed my helmet from the center workbench, the one I always wore during races. As I turned, the toe of my Chucks kicked a— What the hell? Was that a fucking grenade?
I eyed it warily as it skittered over the floor, my heart grinding to a stop. Before the bouncing green shell collided with the wall, I sprinted into the three-bay garage, slammed the steel door behind me, and waited for the world to detonate.
The explosion didn’t come. Not that I would've heard it over the pealing motor enclosed in the room with me. The roar was so goddamned loud it rattled my teeth and stabbed my brain. Good thing the garage was a room within a room, two-stories below ground, constructed with hi-tech soundproofing.
With a finger plugged in one ear and the helmet dangling from the other, I zigzagged through the rows of motorcycles and approached the rear of the revving bike.
The MTT Turbine Streetfighter was a new prototype, one I hadn’t raced yet. Suspended a foot above the floor on a mechanically swaying stand, the tires spun freely and the frame swung side-to-side as if simulating turns. The engine grumbled at peak torque thanks to Benny’s hand on the grip, holding the gas open.
My nostrils burned, and my eyes watered from the fumes. Surely the ventilation system was working?
Benny stood on the bike, bent at the waist, balancing as I had done in the last race, but perhaps with a bit more grace. Her brown creeper boots angled in a pigeon-toed pose on the seat. Sheathed in tight army-green pants, her skinny bird legs were capped with yellow plastic knee guards.
She rocked with the tilt of the frame, hands on the grips and ass in the air. A gun holster fastened around her thigh. Frowning, I leaned down for a closer look.
I blew out a breath. Just a toy pistol, thank Christ. I never knew what to expect. Like the grenade, I might’ve overreacted, but there had been too many explosive, near-death accidents over the years. What I did know was Benny with a loaded firearm would be a face-palm of apocalyptic proportions.
My gaze fell away from the back of her thighs. Wait, were those—? I glanced back and angled my head. Yeah, those were ruffles on the ass of her pants.
I walked around to the front of the bike, scrutinizing the leather jacket I’d never seen before. Clearly tailored to fit me, it draped her small shoulders.
Another prototype engulfed her head—the helmet she’d been tinkering with for several weeks. A rainbow of wires snaked from it, connecting to square patches along the sleeves of the jacket.
The helmet tilted up, leveling with my face. The opaque visor shielded what I guessed was a crazed expression highlighted by glittery makeup.
I narrowed my eyes and mouthed, “What are you doing?”
The motorized stand oscillated the bike to the right, shaking the frame as well as the crazy woman balancing atop it. She let go of the grips and rose to her full height, arms stretched out to her sides. Then she lifted a boot, pointed it behind her like a warrior ballerina high on methanol fumes, and squealed over the screech of the motor.
Amidst her harebrained stunt, the bike shifted, and her upper body toppled forward, likely weighted down by the helmet. I reached out my free hand to catch her arm, but she slapped it away. Her back straightened, her fists whipped through the air, and she hopped off.
She was either fucking around or testing a new design. Who knew with her? I’d stopped trying to keep up with her antics years ago.
I turned off the bike and the motorized stand, and blessed silence blanketed the room. She removed the oversized helmet, ripping the wires as she tossed it and the jacket on the table beside her.
Fire-red hair covered her head, a stark contrast from the prior day’s silvery white. It spiked every which way around the black sweatband on her forehead.
She jabbed her fingers through the shoulder-length strands, swooping them away from her neck. “Wassup?”
“Tell me that’s not a live grenade on the floor out there, waiting to be kicked.”
Green eyes glimmered beneath the fluorescent lighting. “Did you kick it?” Her gasp rolled into a laugh. “God, you should see the look on your face.” She bared her teeth and scrunched her nose, hissing noisily.
Was her feral opossum act supposed to be an imitation of my expression?
“So yeeeeah, if you happen upon another grenade”—she bit her lip—“don’t kick it.”
Which meant I would spend that evening sweeping the warehouse of all things fragile, flammable, perishable, combustible, chemical, or potentially hazardous.
She hopped up on the table and swung her legs. “Your unbalanced forces issue is resolved.”
“What unbalanced forces issue?”
Gold dust shimmered on her fluttering lashes and thickened into swirly lines at her temples. “We’re not just dealing with the force of gravity pulling downward and the normal force of the ground pushing upward.” Her voice sped up, her hands flying through the air. “If the engine applies two-thousand Newtons of force—”
And this was where I tuned out. In her exuberance to nerd all over the shop floor, she had a tendency to forget we met at MIT, that my test scores were only slightly lower than hers, and the only reason I transferred from the physics and engineering departments to the business school was to broaden our skill set. Because by then, I knew MIT’s top graduate would become the nerdacious half of our two-man team.
“—creates equilibrium and, thus, state of motion.” Her black tank top clung to her chest, her tiny breasts having zero state of motion as she bounced on her butt and talked with her hands.
I was pretty sure a pimply-faced, Cheetos-eating teenage boy lurked beneath the glam boots and angel glitter.
One that hacked technology already in existence and altered it beyond the boundaries of the law to fit my needs.
One that also didn’t know when to shut up. “The friction exerts a rightward force upon the leftward-moving bike and—”
“Benny.” I scrubbed a palm over my face.
“An analysis had to be done to determine if the forces acting upon—”
“Benny!” I pointed at the broken wires twisted around the helmet and jacket beside her. “Get to the fucking point.”
She fisted her hands on her hips. “Fine, grumpy jackasshole.” She cocked her head. “Since you’re so keen on standing on your bike at 167 miles per hour, I designed a balance system. With wireless sensors in the sleeves of your jacket, the helmet will beep when equilibrium is lost and calibrate the acceleration and velocity vectors of your body. The digital gauge will tell you when, where, and how far to lean. Happy?”
“No.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. Just what I didn’t need, more alarms flashing in my face. At least, now I knew how she'd stayed balanced on her rigged contraption. “I know how to lean my damned bike.”
She stared at her boots a
nd mumbled, “Contentious, menstruating, fun killah.”
“What was that?”
She sniffed. “Nothing.”
I held out the helmet in my hand. “I need a modification on this by Saturday’s race.”
Her pale cheeks rose in color. “But I just gave you the Best. Mod. Evah.”
I spun the helmet between my hands, flipping it upside down and revealing the rows of buttons along the inside panel. “What I need is”—for lack of a better term—“x-ray vision.”
Her chin sawed side-to-side, scraping her teeth together and making my ears bleed. “Like radar detection? Through-the-wall imaging to map the layout of a building?”
“No, more like the ability to selectively see through a smaller object”—like a silver helmet—“as if it were translucent.” Combined with the facial recognition software, I would be able to identify what I hoped was a fuckable face.
For an exasperating moment, she regarded me with one of her bizarre expressions I didn’t have a chance in hell of interpreting. Then she bent over her knees and roared with laughter while slapping her thighs.
I set my jaw. What the shit was so damned funny?
Eventually, she sobered and snatched the helmet from my hands. “Don’t sell your soul to Big Brother, he’d said.” Sliding off the table, she tossed the helmet between her hands as she paced a circle around me. “Join me, and we’ll decimate evil and transcend conventional morality with technology, he’d crowed. You’ll have enough freedom and money to delight your little futurist heart, he’d promised.”
Yeah, okay, she was paraphrasing the pitch I’d given her in grad school. When she was approached by a branch of the government—one that claimed some cloak-and-dagger crap about having no name or existence—I’d offered a sweeter deal. So what? I hadn’t over-promised.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “What are you saying? You want a raise?” Fuck, her salary already exceeded two million a year.
She paused in front of me, the spikes of her hair several inches below my chin. Tilting her head back, she squinted up at me. “Did Superman use his x-ray vision to sneak peeks at Lois Lane’s undies?”
I stiffened. No doubt my glare bulged my eyes out of my head.
“No. He didn’t.” She shook her finger at my face. “He used his powers to honor ethical codes and social mores.” She tossed the helmet at my chest.
I caught the costly piece of equipment before it hit the concrete floor and set it on the table. “What the hell are you going on about?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Logan Flynt. This x-ray business reeks of Eau de Miss Ducati.” She drew the plastic gun from her thigh and pressed the barrel against my forehead. “Who, like Lois Lane, is a scrotum fister. A flaunter of coy curves. A show stealer…”
I stopped listening. Christ Almighty, why had I mentioned her to Benny? Huge lapse in judgment. I squared my shoulders, shoved my head against the gun, and gave her my most intimidating glower. “We’re done here.”
The corner of her mouth curled up. “Aw, maybe that’s the problem.” A full grin pulled her lips from her teeth. “Maybe you need a good scrotum fisting. I know a girl—”
“Yep, we’re done.” I clamped my hand over her smug smirk and raised my eyes to the toy gun digging against my brow.
She squeezed the trigger, and fuck me, the obnoxious pop made me flinch. Goddammit, I was not in the fucking mood for this. I dropped my hand and scowled.
“So much anger, you angry angry angriphile.” Poking a finger through the trigger guard, she twirled the gun in the air.
I dropped my head back and closed my eyes. If she weren’t so fucking brilliant, I might’ve had her committed by now. Well, there was also the fact that she was my only friend, the sole person I trusted with my life.
She seemed completely oblivious to my growing frustration as she aimed the gun, mock-shooting limbs off my body. When her eyes locked on mine, I bit out, “Add the modification. That’s what I’m paying you for.”
“You’re paying me to save humanity from Trenchant Media.” She blew on the muzzle and holstered it on her thigh. “Which is so much more poetic than x-rayted panties,” she sang in a melodic yet condescending voice.
I ground my teeth, impatience sharpening my breath.
She glanced at her watch-free wrist. “Oh, look at that. I’m late for a date with Solid Snake.”
Solid Snake? Probably had something to do with her costume. She called it cosplay. I called it delusional.
She struck a pose, one hand on the butt of the gun, the other punching the space between us. “I make a foxy Meryl Silverburgh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” I had no clue. “So I’ll assume x-ray vision is a technology beyond your skill level, then?”
“Pfft. Hardly.” She strutted to the secondary elevator at the rear of the garage and raised the metal gate. The only external passage to and from the underground warehouse, it was wide enough to transport six bikes at a time.
She lowered the gate and peered at me through the bars. Despite her childish outer layers, what stared back at me was profound, organically-evolved intelligence, albeit off-the-grid and not always identifiable. But that only added to her lively spirit, and my irritation notwithstanding, I found it endearing.
I envied her carefree nature, how she was able to roll between her animated mischief and bleeding-edge innovations. To be able to shut things out and goof around was something I’d always wanted the freedom to do, but I couldn’t.
She turned away and faced the back wall, her voice quiet. “You can always find a Ducati if you’re looking for a distraction, Evader Man. But in matters of revenge, looking for distractions often signifies a change of heart.”
The keypad beeped, and the lift ascended. When the concrete shaft swallowed the top of the elevator, she folded at the waist and grabbed her ankles. Her upside down smile flashed between her boots as she wiggled her fingers at me. “Toodles.”
I stood there for a moment, rankled and defensive, with no one around to engage in the argument I itched for. I spun, strode across the garage, and stopped before the coal furnace in the wall and the newspaper article framed above it.
The clipping featured a photo of my mother crouched on her Honda CB750. Blue eyes shining, brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, she smiled with pride and vivacity and heart.
I was thirty-two now, so the article was printed…nineteen years ago. Long damned time without her. That morning was my last joyous memory of her. I’d stood just outside the frame of the picture, dazzled and stupefied as the cameras clicked.
My eyes lowered to the text, scanning the words for the millionth time as an achy burn tightened my throat.
LA resident, Maura Flynt, was inducted into the Motorcycle Hall of Fame after a trailblazing career as a pro superbike racer, Hollywood stunt rider, and exhibition daredevil, rivaling the likes of Evel Knievel.
My hands fisted at my sides. That night, she was murdered in our hotel room while I hid beneath the bed. That night, my thirteen-year-old dreams morphed from racing in the World Championship Grand Prix to filling Hell with the gutted targets of my revenge.
In matters of revenge, looking for distractions often signifies a change of heart.
Benny didn’t know revenge. It didn’t claw at her underbelly and wake her in a feverish sweat at night. But she knew me, and she subscribed to justice and family. I was her family as much as she was mine.
We’d worked side-by-side in this garage since we graduated from MIT eight years earlier. Her, developing and expanding on my ideas. Me, following my mother’s leads and…revenging.
My first kill was the assassin who’d sliced my mother’s throat. Took me five years to hunt him down and thirty seconds to open his neck the way he’d butchered hers.
I placed my hand against the incinerator door and let the heat soak into my palm. Eight more bodies had joined his fiery grave. I killed killers, rapists, career criminals, all of them named in my mother’s diary. All of
them tied to Trenchant Media. And I wasn’t done.
But we needed money. We always needed money. Especially the way my sole employee raped my wallet.
A grin tugged at my mouth. Benny was worth every dime. To fund my endeavors and her salary, she’d designed the underground racing network and the untraceable technology that protected its secret society of gamblers, thus giving Evader a profitable platform.
Of course, no one knew who launched and maintained the network, but because the winner always advanced to the next race and I’d never lost, Evader had become the racing icon.
If I lost? Well, besides evading death at the hands of pissed-off gamblers, I’d lose my income stream, my high-paid employee, and the resources needed to finish what I’d started.
My attention flicked back to the newspaper clipping. I wasn’t looking for a distraction, and I sure as hell hadn’t had a change of heart. Revenge wasn’t an emotion. It was my inheritance, the acting force that lived in my blood and sustained my balance. It was my equilibrium.
Revenge.
I raced to finance it.
I evaded to protect it.
I killed to attain it.
I planned everything.
Once Trent Anderson announced his replacement as CEO of Trenchant Media, I would be there, donned in a suit, staring into his eyes, and smiling as I accepted the offer.
Then I would gut him, all of them, from the inside out.
Six long days passed, my waking hours spent in the office, spurts of sleep coming only when I forced it. But finally, I shed the miserable heels and the creep of Trent’s fingers, if only for a fleeting night.
I weaved the Ducati through convoys of bikers, my skin heating beneath the tight mold of my custom leathers. Hundreds had gathered around the finish line, the sputter of exhaust pipes resonating with the wild pumping of my blood.
A potluck of young men with crew cuts and athletic physiques reclined on enduros, sportbikes, busas, and zooks in a colorful array of fairings and racing leathers. These were the guys who longed to race but would probably never find the balls to throw down against a competitor like Evader.
