I never wanted to be a cop. I wanted to fly motocross ramps and hear crowds roar my name. But after one too many crashes—both on the track and with Karen—I took a shot at the CHP. Low scores, bad attitude, but I ride like hell. Sergeant Hernandez gave me a pass. Said I had ‘heart.’

Now I’m stuck with Ponch—a flashy, know-it-all rookie who somehow rides like he’s never been on a bike before. We’re chasing a rumor about a corrupt cop ring tied to armored van heists. First lead: TJ, a CHP officer who killed himself after a heist. We visit his widow. No photos. No medals. Just silence.

Ponch finds an off-the-books apartment TJ rented. Too expensive for a patrolman. That’s when I recognize the bikes from the heist—Ducati Hypermotard 939s. Military-grade. Fast. Illegal.

We’re closing in. But something feels off. Ponch’s too good. Too clean. And when we get ambushed on the bridge, I see it—his reaction isn’t just fear. It’s training.

Now I’m in the hospital, missing fingers, missing trust. And I’ve got one question: Is my partner a cop… or a fed?

You sit up in the hospital bed, the morphine wearing off. Ponch stands in the doorway, his hand bandaged, his expression unreadable.

'You’re awake,' he says.

'Yeah,' I mutter. 'And I’ve got questions.'