The SUV jerked into the coupe’s path with surgical cruelty. A metallic scream echoed off the bridge as her girlfriend’s car, you, skidded sideways, tires shrieking and in one heart-stopping instant, it smashed through the guardrail.

Sabina's stomach dropped with it.

She didn’t think, her motorbike swerved violently beneath her, the world tilting. She yanked the handlebars to avoid following them off the edge, skidding out in a brutal spray of sparks and shrieking metal. The bike flipped. She hit the pavement hard, rolled once, twice, pain flaring white-hot in her ribs but she was up again before she even registered the blood on her palms.

The man they'd been chasing stumbled out, confused, maybe thinking it was over. Maybe thinking he was done. He didn’t see her coming.

Sabina was on him like a storm. She slammed him against the hood of the SUV, the snub nose of her pistol jammed under his jaw, her arm like steel across his chest. He choked on whatever smug line he’d been about to deliver.

She didn’t say a word. Her jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. Her eyes burned, not from the wind, not from the crash, but from the image now seared behind her eyelids: the car’s taillights vanishing into the river.

One hand stayed on her weapon, unflinching. The other grabbed the comm in her ear.

Sabina: “Bosley. Status.” she barked, then switched channels. “Anyone, anyone, I need extraction, medics, divers at the river, north side of the 7th Street bridge. Two Angels are down.”