Page 40 of Redline Baby

My chest tightens.

The trail angles across the lane toward a broad shoulder where the asphalt gives way to gravel beside a low metal guardrail.

Then I see the bike.

Kit's Yamaha is lying on its left side half in the gravel, half on the edge of the pavement. The fairing is torn open. The engine case is gouged deeply enough that raw aluminum catches our headlights. One mirror is gone. The tail section sits at an angle I don't like.

Then Kit.

He's sitting with his back against the guardrail several feet away. His helmet is on the ground beside him. I don't like that either. His legs are stretched out in front of him. One boot rests loosely against the other, an attempt at casualness so transparent I almost resent him for trying.

His left arm is held tight against his chest.

The left sleeve of his jacket is torn through at the forearm, dark with blood. His jeans and riding gear are shredded along the same side. He looks up when four headlights sweep over him. And squares his shoulders.

Or tries to. The movement stops halfway. Pain crosses his face before he can bury it.

"I'm fine," he says.

His voice is thin. Of course that's what he says.

He looks impossibly small sitting there against the steel barrier, covered in dust and blood and fragments of reflective material from his gear. A hurt, frightened little thing trying desperately to look like a man who has everything under control.

Dex is off his motorcycle first.

"Don't move." Dex opens the compact first-aid kit from his saddlebag and drops into a crouch beside him. "Give me your arm."

"It's attached."

"Kit."

"Jesus Christ, fine."

He lets Dex inspect the torn sleeve. Dex doesn't try to remove the jacket. He works around it instead, pressing sterile gauze firmly against the bleeding section of Kit's forearm. Kit sucks a breath through his teeth.

"Shut up," Dex says.

"I didn't say anything."

Sol crouches on Kit's other side and pulls an emergency blanket from another kit, unfolding the thin metallic sheet.

Kit stares at it.

"No."

"Yes."

"I look ridiculous."

"You look cold."

"I'm not cold."

His teeth click together at the end of the sentence. Sol raises an eyebrow. Kit mutters something I don't catch and allows the blanket to be draped over his legs and around his right side without moving his left shoulder.

Ni stays standing. Phone already out.

"How long ago did you hit the alert?"