"Subject is headed north on Webster Street. Witnesses state subject is a white male, late thirty's, well-built and six foot something in height. All units be advised; he is armed and dangerous. Subject is on a red and silver Yamaha Star, license plate PV2-"

The man smiled and hugged his bike, urging it to go faster. He swerved past pedestrians, ducking between cars. Heart racing with the thrill of being chased, the risk of being caught, the man followed the route on his GPS. Once he got to the drawbridge, he would jump across and vanish into the shadows. That was the plan.

Anyone in his line of work would tell you one of the rules of the lifestyle he had chosen almost 20 years ago; things don't always go according to plan.

"Careful, Wanderer," A female voice cautioned over the radio.

"I always am," He replied, drifting onto a side street. Most other riders would have crashed there, either slamming into the black Escalade parked on the street or hitting the curb and losing control.

A chuckle responded, and then, "Yea, yea, yea. 5 blocks ahead is the bridge. I'm serious, though, be careful."

The man soared down a side street. As he came back onto the main road, His speed, his momentum, which had been his ally all night, turned on him. A black Escalade, the same one that had been parked, he was certain, pulled out in front of him.

He smashed into the left side of the SUV, bones crunching due to the nearly 200 miles an hour impact. His bike slid under the SUV dragging him with it. His pant leg had been caught somewhere in the bike. So his precious Yamaha pulled him forward under the SUV, shattering his bones.

The bike flipped, still running, and slammed into his sternum. Finally, he managed to shut the bike off and lay underneath it, bruised and broken. He tossed his helmet away, gasping for breath as his lungs struggled to remember how to correctly function.

Laying there bleeding out on the concrete, he knew he had made an error, he had made several, and several of those had been made knowingly.

Civilians could have been hurt; he hadn't been paying closer attention to the Escalade that had been following him. His biggest, most fatal error, was that he had been so absorbed in escaping the police that he had forgotten that the police weren't the only people after him. He prayed to the god he had lost faith in years ago, that the punishment for the rookie mistake he had just made would be quick. That was a rookie thought.

The bike was lifted off his chest, giving him just enough lung capacity to breath, before a burlap sack was shoved over his head. He didn't struggle as his captors did this, nor did he fight when he was lifted to his feet shoved forward into the Escalade. He couldn't. A syringe plunged into his neck, causing him to slip into unconsciousness.

A man in an olive suit got out walking over to the bike. He picked up the injured man's helmet, gesturing for someone else to load the guitar case attached to the motorcycle into the vehicle. He took the earpiece from the helmet gently and pressed it against his ear. "Wanderer, answer me, answer me please!" the woman on the other end cried desperately.

"I have your wanderer now, finally. If you'd like him back, you are so welcome come and TRY to get him, my guards need shooting practice." The men laughed cruelly "In the mean time, I am going to break him."

He dropped the earpiece and crushed it beneath the heel of his shoe.