Iron to Iron (Wolf by Wolf) by Ryan Graudin

wasn’t going for Luka this time; Adele was in the way, veering off to Luka’s right, her arm in perfect swiping distance. A one-handed, drive-by stabbing took talent, but Watabe Takeo seemed well practiced in the maneuver. He pulled next to Adele, his knife slashed out, catching—
    Adele didn’t yell so much as bellow. The sound punched through Luka’s back, came out of him chest-first, and seized him like a grappling hook. He slammed his brakes. Takeo drew up on Luka’s right side, blade within easy reach. Luka lunged for the weapon, hoping to knock it out of Takeo’s grasp, but the knife-fighter was too well trained. Punch, dodge, slice! Luka’s riding glove bore the brunt of the Higonokami’s edge, but Luka felt the color of pain across his palm. Red. Diagonal through his life line.
    Luka’s hand flew back to his handlebars, oozing blood on the throttle. Takeo, balance wavering, passed by, knife jutting out like an extra finger. Adele was still alive, still driving. She charged up Takeo’s right side, and was now cutting him off with a sharp veer left. The move wasn’t just daring, but completely insane—the kind of courage distorted by pain. Adele’s rear wheel spun only centimeters from Takeo’s front tire, forcing the boy to brake and drop back to a safer distance.
    Luka gunned his Zündapp forward. The throttle was slick and hard to grip, especially with an injured hand, but Luka seized it anyway, shoving his conscious mind away from the electrical impulses that told him he was hurting. HURTING.
    He stole a look at Adele’s arm as he drew close. The knife had gone straight through her jacket, but Luka couldn’t see much beyond the tear. Her jaw was set, white with pain. The colorlessness blended with the zinc oxide still streaked across her cheeks. Several times Adele caught his stare. Those eyes… they were starting to get addicting. Hooking him again and again. The asphalt ripped beneath them, the wind thrashed, and despite his right-hand fire, Luka was soaring.
    Road high.
Her
high.
    They drove side by side. Far enough away not to wreck each other, close enough to prevent Takeo from barreling through their center. Every time their attacker tried to move up one of their sides, they drifted apart, blocking him. After several attempts, Takeo eased off their rear, slipping his knife away just in time for the fuel stop and its accompanying press cameras.
    Threat averted. For now.
    Luka’s high—adrenaline mixed with Adele—throbbed against his palm as he pulled into the refueling station. These stops were always short, five minutes or less, as the officials siphoned fuel from gasoline barrel to Zündapp tank. Racers had to choose which necessity was most pressing: a swig from the canteen, a hurriedly chewed protein bar, or nature’s calling. Luka went straight for the first-aid kit, whirling through its contents: Iodine! Morphine syrettes! Gauze! Teeny-tiny bandages that looked more suited to patching up baby dolls than sixteen-year-old boys! The cut wasn’t deep, but it was still oozing. He splashed the wound with iodine and wrapped it in gauze.
    “Need anything?” he asked Adele, who stood by another gasoline drum, guzzling water and examining the tear in her jacket’s black leather.
    “It’s just a nick.” She screwed the cap back on her canteen. “I’ll live.”
    Luka wasn’t so sure, but before he could press, the official refueling his motorcycle began pulling the hose out.
Time to go!
He shut his med kit with such haste that several of the miniature bandages twirled out. Luka left them in the dirt.

Chapter 9
    1st: Tsuda Katsuo, 9 days, 26 minutes, 8 seconds.
    2nd: Luka Löwe, 9 days, 26 minutes, 23 seconds.
    3rd: Felix Wolfe, 9 days, 26 minutes, 34 seconds.
    4th: Watabe Takeo, 9 days, 29 minutes, 19 seconds.
    The knifing incident cost Luka a few seconds and a tablespoon of blood. Nothing he couldn’t reclaim over the next few days.
    Katsuo dismounted at the courtyard of the New