The tires screamed as Marco ripped the handbrake, sending his beat-up Jester Classic into a gutter-slide through the alley. Police chopper blades thumped overhead, their searchlight carving a white-hot scar across the wet asphalt of Madout City.
He looked at Lana, and for the first time that night, he smiled.
“No,” he said quietly, turning the key. The engine coughed, then growled back to life. “We don’t leak it. We weaponize it.”