Alex lay on the pavement, shoulder screaming with pain, blood soaking through his jacket.
Two police officers approached, weapons raised. Stun weapons crackling with blue electricity.
"HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!"
Alex's bike was ten feet away, rear wheel tangled in the electric net, sparking and useless.
The convoy was half a block ahead. Still moving. Getting farther away every second.
'Think. THINK. Fucking think, damn it.'
Blood dripped from his fingertips onto the pavement. The convoy was disappearing. Everything was disappearing.
Then it hit him.
Teleportation. He'd used it to get to Paris. He could use it now.
"June." His voice came out rasping. Barely audible. "Teleport me to my bike. Do it now."
The officers were five feet away.
"DO NOT MOVE!"
[Confirmed.]
The world blinked.
Alex materialized beside his fallen motorcycle, crouched low.
The officers spun, weapons tracking.
"WHAT THE...."
Alex grabbed the bike and yanked the net off the wheel. Sparks flew. Metal tore.
One officer fired. Blue electricity arced past Alex's head. So close he smelled burned hair.
He threw his leg over the damaged bike and hit the ignition.
The engine sputtered. Coughed.
"Come on, come on..."
It roared to life.
The second officer fired. The discharge hit the pavement where Alex had been a second earlier.
Alex twisted the throttle and shot forward. The bike's rear end wobbled badly, damaged from the net, but it moved.
"SUSPECT FLEEING! ALL UNITS RESPOND!"
More sirens. Above and behind. The police were converging.
Alex pushed the struggling bike harder, weaving through traffic. Every turn sent pain shooting through his injured shoulder. Blood dripped down his arm.
The convoy was ahead. Two blocks. Still moving toward their delivery route.
He couldn't let them get there.
"June, where's Marchant Street from here?"
[Recalculating optimal intercept route. Marchant Street is now 2.1 kilometers west. To redirect convoy, you must force them off current path before they reach Presidential District checkpoint in 8 minutes.]
Eight minutes.
Alex looked ahead. The convoy was approaching a major intersection.
"Can you control the traffic lights?"
[Affirmative. No additional cost.]
"Turn everything red except the westbound lanes. Make it look like their only clear path is west."
[Executing.]
The intersection ahead lit up. Every direction red except west, which glowed green.
The convoy slowed at the intersection. Cars were stopped in all directions except west.
Inside the lead escort: "Traffic's backed up."
"All directions but west."
"That's not our route."
"I can see that. But sitting here makes us a target. We take west, loop around, approach delivery point from alternate angle."
"Command won't like that."
"Command's comm is still down. We make the call. West route, now."
The convoy turned west.
Directly toward Marchant Street.
Alex followed, staying back. Two police cars were still pursuing him, but they were hanging back now, probably calling for backup instead of engaging directly.
His bike was getting worse. The rear wheel grinding with every rotation. Top speed was shot. Handling was compromised.
His shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat. He could feel blood pooling in his jacket sleeve.
'Just need to hold together a little longer.'
The convoy moved through the commercial district. Buildings here were shorter. Older. Less molecular assembly, more traditional construction.
Marchant Street was three blocks ahead.
But the police were closing in. Five cars now. Above and behind. Coordinating.
"ALL UNITS, SUSPECT IS HEADING WEST ON COMMERCIAL BOULEVARD. SET UP ROADBLOCK AT MARCHANT INTERSECTION."
'Fuck.'
They were going to block the entrance to Marchant Street. Cut off his escape route and trap him.
"June, I need illusions again. As many as you can give me."
[Previous illusions expired. New generation: 4 copies. Duration: 10 minutes. Cost: 60,000 credits.]
"Do it!"
Four copies materialized around him. Five bikes total now.
The police cars hesitated, trying to identify which one was real.
Alex sent the illusions in different directions. Two went left. Two went right.
The police split up, each car chasing a different copy.
Alex, the real one, stayed straight. Heading for Marchant Street.
The convoy was one block ahead. Almost there.
Then Alex saw it. Three police cars setting up at the Marchant Street intersection. Creating a roadblock.
Between him and his target.
"June, how much for another teleport?"
[120,000 credits. Current balance after illusions: 92,450 credits. Insufficient funds.]
"Fuck!"
The roadblock was solid. Three cars parked sideways across the intersection. Six officers standing behind them. Weapons ready.
The convoy reached the intersection and stopped. Blocked.
"What's going on?" the lead driver radioed.
"Police roadblock. We're stopped."
From one of the police cars, a speaker crackled: "PRESIDENTIAL CONVOY, REMAIN IN YOUR VEHICLES. WE HAVE A PURSUIT IN PROGRESS. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR VEHICLES."
The convoy guards stayed put. Confused but compliant.
Alex was fifty feet from the roadblock. Slowing. No way through.
His bike was dying. His shoulder was bleeding. He was out of money for teleportation.
This was it. The end of the—
[Payment received: 2,000,000 credits.]
[Source: Valeris Tech Solutions - Problem Resolution Payment #1]
[New balance: 2,092,450 credits.]
Alex stared at the notification. Blood dripped down his arm. His bike was dying. The police were closing in.
And Sienna had just saved his life without knowing it.
He almost laughed. Would have, if his shoulder wasn't screaming.
"Perfect fucking timing," he muttered.
"June, teleport. Past the roadblock. Put me on Marchant Street."
[Confirmed.]
The world blinked.
Alex materialized on Marchant Street, fifty feet past the roadblock. The convoy was right there. Thirty feet ahead.
The police at the roadblock turned, weapons raising.
"HOW DID HE—"
But Alex wasn't focused on them.
He was focused on the convoy.
"June, teleport again. Directly in front of the van."
[Confirmed.]
Blink.
Alex appeared in the center of the street, right in the van's path.
Through the windshield, the driver's eyes went wide.
"BRAKE!"
The van's tires screamed. The driver jerked the wheel.
Too hard.
The van swerved violently. Its rear end whipped out like a fish tail.
The lead escort, directly behind, stood no chance.
Metal met metal. The sound was massive. Primal. Like the world breaking.
Glass exploded. Airbags deployed with gunshot cracks. The rear escort couldn't brake in time—slammed into the lead vehicle's bumper and sent it spinning further into the van.
Three vehicles tangled together in a knot of twisted metal and hissing steam. Someone inside was screaming. Alarms wailed. Fluids leaked onto the pavement in dark pools.
Alex teleported to the side, barely avoiding a piece of bumper that shot past like shrapnel.
Behind him, the police were shouting. Running. Coming through the roadblock.
But the convoy was crashed. Stopped. Guards were exiting, disoriented.
Six guards total. Two from each vehicle. All armed.
But they were confused. Shaken from the impact.
Alex had maybe twenty seconds before the police arrived.
He moved fast.
The nearest guard was still getting his bearings. Alex hit him with a shoulder check, using his body weight and momentum. The guard stumbled back.
Alex's shoulder screamed. His vision grayed at the edges.
'Not now. Stay up. Just stay fucking up.'
Alex grabbed the guard's stun weapon and twisted it free.
Used it on the guard. Blue electricity. The man convulsed and dropped.
Two guards from the rear escort were raising their weapons.
Alex dove behind the crashed van. Electricity arced over his head.
His shoulder screamed in protest. Blood loss was making him dizzy.
He needed to end this fast.
"June, enhanced reflexes. Now."
[Enhanced Reflexes - Level 1 activated. Duration: 5 minutes. Cost: 95,000 credits.]
The world sharpened. The pain in his shoulder didn't disappear—it just stopped mattering. His body moved before his brain caught up. Faster. Cleaner.
Alex rolled out from behind the van. Two guards were advancing, weapons up.
He threw the stolen stun weapon at one. It hit the guard's chest. The man caught it instinctively.
Alex closed distance before the guard could react. Grabbed the weapon. Turned it on its owner. Blue electricity. The guard dropped.
The second guard fired.
Alex saw it coming. Ducked left. The discharge missed.
He swept the guard's legs. The man went down hard.
Three left standing.
But the police were almost here. Twenty feet away. Weapons raised.
"EVERYONE ON THE GROUND! NOW!"
Alex ignored them. Focused on the van.
He yanked open the rear doors.
Boxes. Dozens of them. All labeled with official presidential seals.
He grabbed three. Heavy. Threw them onto his damaged bike nearby.
"STOP! DROP WHAT YOU'RE HOLDING!"
Alex mounted the bike. The boxes were strapped awkwardly but they'd hold.
One of the remaining convoy guards raised his weapon.
Fired.
Blue electricity hit Alex's bike. The engine sputtered. Sparked.
But it didn't die.
Alex twisted the throttle. The bike lurched forward, damaged and protesting, but moving.
The police fired. Nets deployed. One missed. Another hit a parked car.
Alex swerved into a side alley. Narrow. Too narrow for the police cars.
But not too narrow for a motorcycle.
He shot down the alley, the bike barely holding together, his shoulder on fire, blood soaking his entire left side.
Behind him, sirens wailed. Officers on foot pursued.
But Alex was already turning the corner. Then another. Then another.
Getting distance. Getting lost in the maze of commercial district side streets.
Five minutes later, he emerged onto a quieter road. No sirens nearby.
He pulled into a parking garage three levels down. Killed the engine.
The silence was sudden. Absolute.
Alex sat there, hands still gripping the handlebars. His entire body was shaking. Not from fear. From adrenaline crash.
Blood had soaked through his jacket, down his arm, pooled in his glove. His shoulder felt like someone had shoved a hot iron into it and left it there.
The bike's engine ticked as it cooled. Somewhere above, traffic hummed. Normal city sounds. Like the last ten minutes hadn't happened.
Three boxes sat strapped behind him. Presidential seals gleaming in the dim garage light.
Mission complete.
"June," he said. His voice came out hoarse. Wrecked. "Get me back to the hotel."
[Teleportation ready.]
"Do it."
The world blinked one last time.
And Alex was gone.