The Kawasaki's engine screamed, a high-pitched mechanical wail that echoed off the concrete walls of the Skyway. Chano was a blur of matte black against the city lights, his body tucked low against the tank. He tapped his comms, the system chirping as it bypassed layers of encryption that would have taken a normal hacker weeks to crack.
"Wake up, Phenphen," Chano said. His voice was a flat line.
Thousands of miles away—or maybe just a few blocks over—a screen exploded into life. Elijah, known to the digital underworld as Don Delubyo, nearly choked on a mouthful of instant noodles.
"P-Pucha... Master?! You're alive?!" Elijah scrambled, knocking over a graveyard of energy drink cans. "We thought you were toast in Singapore! Five years, Master! Five years of waiting for the 'X' to blink! And hey... I told you, don't call me Phenphen. It kills my vibe!"
"No time, Elijah," Chano cut in, leaning the bike so low into a 190 km/h curve that his knee puck brushed the asphalt. "San Pedro is a hot zone. Target is Nena's bakery. Execute the Delubyo protocol. Now."
The joking stopped. Elijah's voice turned cold, the sound of a man who once held a national power grid hostage for a dare. "Copy that. San Pedro goes dark in ten seconds. No signal, no power, no eyes. I'll pin the ground teams. But Master... you've got company."
"I know," Chano muttered, glancing at his mirror.
Four black Ducatis had just crested the ramp, their riders tucked into aerodynamic crouches. They wore the red-and-black tactical gear of the Scorpion Strike Unit. They weren't just riders; they were hunters.
"I have flies on my tail," Chano said. "Keep San Pedro clean. Save the bakery. Out."
The Ducatis moved with terrifying coordination, shifting into a diamond formation to box Chano against the Skyway's concrete barrier.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT!
Muzzle flashes strobed in the dark as a pillion rider leveled a submachine gun. Bullets chewed up the asphalt inches from Chano's rear tire.
"Philip was right," Chano growled. "This is getting too noisy."
He reached for a toggle on the Ninja's tank—one of Philip's "special" mods. He flipped a switch labeled [BASAG-MOD].
The rear of the Ninja didn't just puff smoke; it exhaled a dense cloud of metallic chaff laced with liquid nitrogen. The lead Scorpion rider, blinded and hitting an instantly frozen patch of road, lost his front end. The bike bucked violently, high-siding the rider over the barrier. He disappeared into the sixty-foot drop toward the Makati streets below.
One down.
The remaining three split. One tried to ram Chano's flank while the others hung back, waiting for a clear shot. Chano didn't hit the brakes; he twisted the throttle until the front wheel threatened to leave the ground.
Inside his helmet, the HUD painted the world in thermal ghosts. "Master, Magallanes exit in three seconds," Elijah's voice crackled. "Give me the word."
"Now!"
A massive digital billboard for a luxury watch glitched, the elegant face of a model replaced by a pulsing, blood-red 'X'. Simultaneously, Elijah hijacked the Skyway's emergency maintenance strobes. A line of high-intensity floodlights began to pulse in a blinding, rhythmic flicker designed to induce vertigo.
"Aaaagh!" the riders screamed, their retinas seared.
Chano slammed his brakes, the Ninja performing a perfect, vertical "stoppie." As the blinded bikers shot past him, he dropped a heavy-duty EMP grenade—another "gift" from Philip—directly into their path.
THUMP.
A blue ripple of distorted air washed over the Ducatis. Their digital ignitions died instantly. The bikes became dead weight, sliding into each other in a chaotic heap of sparking magnesium and plastic.
The last rider—the leader—skidded to a halt a hundred yards away. He kicked his stand down and drew a long, retractable katana that hummed with a subtle vibration. He pulled off his helmet, revealing a face mapped with jagged, silver burn scars.
"You're late for your own funeral," the man hissed.
Chano kept the Ninja idling, the engine purring like a caged beast. He didn't dismount. He just stared the man down through his dark visor.
"I have an appointment in Antipolo," Chano's voice echoed through the external speakers. "So let's make this quick. I don't like keeping my 'brother' waiting."
"Brother?" The scarred man laughed, a dry, hacking sound. "L doesn't want a brother. He wants a replacement."
"Many have tried," Chano replied.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a length of specialized fiber-optic wire, thin as a hair but stronger than steel.
"Master, San Pedro update!" Elijah's voice was triumphant. "The Delubyo hit hard. I've locked the attackers inside their own armored vans—the doors are electronically dead. Philip's boys in Laguna are already on their way to 'collect' them. Aling Nena is safe. She's actually yelling at the neighbors about the blackout."
Chano felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a fraction. "Good. Now watch the Skyway, Elijah. I'm about to clear the trash."
Chano stepped off the bike, the wire glinting under the flickering maintenance lights. The King of the Underworld wasn't running anymore. He was taking out the garbage.