****
The Running Hill riders met at the race track on Flag Day, as planned. Mona was there to hand out their numbers and collect the money they raised in the event. Audience members could bet on different racers from the different teams and all of the proceeds went to the charities that each club sponsored.
The riders on Benny’s team took motorcycling seriously, but they were not competitive. They rode in races to thrill spectators and earn money for their cause, not to actually win. The winning was simply in participating and being able to give back.
That was what Lance could never seem to get through his thick skull.
Mona had shown up on the back of Ryan’s beloved motorcycle, CopyCat. It was a black Harley with small, red paws painted into the back. All of the riders on the racing team had motorcycles with a unique insignia. That way, each rider could be recognized by both his number and his logo.
Doing her part to join in with the fun, Mona wore a black and red outfit, resembling a harlequin character. She even went so far with the theme as to draw black and red diamonds on either cheek, under her eyes. The theatricality of these events was something she loved to get behind.
Riding practice with Ryan was going well, but she was in no way ready to race. She still wasn’t sure she’d ever want to full-on race with the club. She’d be happy just to ride with them.
She sat at the Running Hill Riders table, watching as her club started their engines and took off down the track. She knew that it didn’t matter who won and that there was more than one rider on her team, but she secretly hoped that Ryan would win anyway.
Perhaps it was not actually much of a secret. She was pretty sure that he knew.
Suddenly, there was a giant burst of flame as one of the bikers crashed and went down against an outer wall of the circle. Mona jumped up, hands over her mouth, and a stunned hush went over the crowd. It wasn’t until some of the smoke had cleared before she realized that the injured rider was one of her own.
It was Weasel.
A handful of people were running around beneath the glowing lights of the racetrack in complete panic. Many of the bikers from both Mona’s team as well as competing teams stopped racing when they saw the crash.
The fire was quickly put out. His motorcycle lay on its side in a melted, molten heap, but Weasel was okay. He was on the ground and in pain, but he was alive.
“Weasel, don’t squirm!” she told him, kneeling beside him. “You’ll bleed more.” She knew basic first aid for situations such as this. It was a good thing indeed that she’d shown up for this race instead of sitting at home and only wishing she had.
Weasel’s eyes were moving nearly as fast as his mind, and he felt like his body was going to start revolving next. Soon, he’d go whirling off into space, a shuttle made of bones and muscle, spinning until he found a void as cold as he felt now. Weasel struggled to feel present, and Mona’s voice brought him solidly back to earth. Weasel forced himself to take a deep breath as the alcohol-soaked rag crept toward the jagged slice on his right arm again, bracing himself for the burning sensation the cloth would bring. Some of the other Running Hill Riders were milling around behind Mona, looking at him and trying their best to find some of the discarded pieces of his crashed motorcycle. Mona knew that they were trying to keep themselves focused on the task, and not consider the chaos the race had descended to. The first needles of pain from the alcohol seeped into Weasel’s wound and actually seemed to help sharpen his focus.
“Can you count how many fingers I’m holding up?” Mona asked him.
She was holding up three and Weasel informed her as such.
That made her smile. He was going to be okay. With any luck, he was not even concussed. He’d just had a bad tumble and got some glass in his arm. No big deal, right?
“This was no accident,” he growled suddenly so that only Mona could hear.
“What?” she asked, startled and wary of what the accusation implied. Surely, he was just being paranoid…
“My brakes wouldn’t lock,” he said, looking her in the eyes so she would hear him out instead of just shrugging it off as nothing.
Weasel was a trusted rider. He was no liar. But she didn’t want to believe that anyone in their club would do such a thing.
She pressed the rag into his arm more firmly, bringing his left hand up to replace hers. He applied pressure as she pulled her hand away. “If you’re suggesting that somebody on our side sabotaged your bike, maybe you hit your head harder than you thought. We’ve weeded out the rats already, remember?”
Weasel tried to get to his feet and winced as he put pressure on his right leg. “Yeah, I remember. But this isn’t a rat. It’s a cancer. And those are more insidious.”
Mona grabbed his arm as he tried to walk away, whirling him around to face her again. “Don’t go around accusing our family of trying to fuck with you, Weasel. Not until we know more about this.”
“Are we a family?” he suddenly asked her. “Or are we all just a bunch of riders looking out for ourselves now?”
It pained her to think this way about the people who had been by her side for years, but there was a shred of truth in what he said. Who else had access to their bikes before races?
The clubs they were racing with were not their enemies. Everyone was there to raise money and have a good time. Mona saw no reason that any of the other racers would want to hurt any of her men.
But something lurked at the back of her mind. There was someone who was set against their club and the wishes of their fallen leader. Lance Olsen. He was a sore loser and even sorer when he didn’t get what he wanted. Mona didn’t want to believe that he’d actually cause a crash like this and endanger Weasel’s life, but there was that lingering ‘but…’ that wouldn’t go away from her mind.
Ryan carefully lifted up the battered and broken bike, moving it away from the wreckage and off the track. Mona went to him now that Weasel had made his way to the first aid tent and was recovering from his shock and injuries. An ambulance would be coming for him soon, but meanwhile she and Ryan had bigger things to deal with.
“Hey, can I talk to you for a minute alone?” she asked him.
“Sure,” he said. He wheeled the bike towards the grassy area everyone had arrived from and let it lay down against the softer ground there. The bike was going to need a lot of repairs now. It was unlikely that Weasel would be able to cover it all on his own, but that was what this club did for each other: they helped out when it was needed. “What is it?” he asked. “Aside from something getting fucked up back there…”
“Weasel seems to think he was sabotaged.”
Ryan sniffed and shook his head, smiling a sardonic smile. “No shit,” he said. “And I think you and I both know who it was.”
Mona sighed. “Lance.” It wasn’t even a question. They both just thought it, felt it, knew it.
No one else was as vehemently against the Running Hill Riders continuing on as a showmanship, charitable club. No one else was has foolhardy and dangerous either.
“I didn’t think the bastard had it in him,” Ryan said. “But he was pretty annoyed when he left our meeting.”
Mona looked into Ryan’s eyes. If he was going to start secretively showing up at their events and ruining their rides, would any of her teammates be safe? Would she be safe?