МАГАЗИН
MY ACCOUNT
Johnny Blaze walked to the twisted, still-smoldering bike. It didn’t transform back. It didn’t need to.
“Let’s ride.”
“There’s a boy,” Moreau said, sliding a grainy photograph across the table of a roadside café. The boy was maybe twelve, with hollow cheeks and eyes too old for his face. “His name is Danny. Three days ago, Roarke’s men took him.”
And for once, that was exactly the way Johnny wanted it.
“You did well,” the Rider whispered, Johnny’s voice echoing beneath the gravel. “But don’t mistake me for a friend.”
“I’m not here for you,” Johnny said, pulling the chain from around his neck—the one thing that kept the Rider chained. “I’m here for the kid.”
The fire died. Johnny fell to his knees, human again, smoking and trembling. He looked at his hands. No burns. No chains.
The Rider threw a chain of hellfire that wrapped around Roarke’s throat. Not to strangle. To anchor .
Johnny Blaze walked to the twisted, still-smoldering bike. It didn’t transform back. It didn’t need to.
“Let’s ride.”
“There’s a boy,” Moreau said, sliding a grainy photograph across the table of a roadside café. The boy was maybe twelve, with hollow cheeks and eyes too old for his face. “His name is Danny. Three days ago, Roarke’s men took him.”
And for once, that was exactly the way Johnny wanted it.
“You did well,” the Rider whispered, Johnny’s voice echoing beneath the gravel. “But don’t mistake me for a friend.”
“I’m not here for you,” Johnny said, pulling the chain from around his neck—the one thing that kept the Rider chained. “I’m here for the kid.”
The fire died. Johnny fell to his knees, human again, smoking and trembling. He looked at his hands. No burns. No chains.
The Rider threw a chain of hellfire that wrapped around Roarke’s throat. Not to strangle. To anchor .