The rain battered Ivan’s body, the wind ripped at his cloak, but still he twisted the accelerator another inch, adding another few notches to the monobike’s quivering dials. Not that he paid any heed; he felt his machine’s beating heart through his legs, his body, his bones, whilst his eyes remained fixed upon the bike in front bearing the beast who had bombed the café.
After a long straight, the road twisted and turned like a marble run, bins were overturned, papers scattered, little beasts sent diving for cover as the assassin tore through Lupa’s backstreets at breakneck speed, leaning hard, skidding round corners, sometimes putting a leg down to kick off the cobbles and even a far wall to stop himself from going over, before accelerating away again.
He was good, but Ivan was better.
Foot by foot the Howler closed the distance, shaving off mere fractions of time with every corner, until, at last, another long, straight alley presented itself and with it Ivan’s opportunity.
The Howler reached round his back and drew his silver pistol. He hoped it had stayed dry tucked under his cloak, for if the rain had dampened the imperium charge it wouldn’t fire so much as fizzle.
Black mantle flapping about his shoulders, Ivan took aim at the rider, but decided in the last second to aim down.