Page 43 of Fatality

I scan the road ahead, every car, every movement.

My pupils dart from one target to the next, catching every tiny shift.

The reflex enhancers wired into my body make every muscle tense beneath my skin, ready to react to the slightest mistake.

The first lap ends and only a few cars are still ahead of me.

During the second lap, I push even harder.

I'm probably doing a hundred miles an hour, but I don't even bother checking the dashboard.

Hearing that engine roar is too fucking addictive.

I blow past another car without even bothering to ram it. The driver isn't focused enough on the road. He'll probably kill himself before the race even ends.

I'm getting bored.

No one's actually giving me a challenge.

The Iron Hounds are falling behind.

Neon Raiden is still ahead—their cars are built for pure speed.

The Golden Kitsune are up there too, smart fuckers. Probably calculating trajectories and angles in real time like the obsessed nerds they are.

But the Static Rebels? I expected them to be more brutal. They’re ahead of me, but they’ve barely done shit today.

My eyes stay fixed on the road until I catch Jax on his damn bike, barking orders at his men in the car.

Oh. I spoke too soon.

One of the Static Rebels leans out of the passenger window and hurls a flaming barrel onto the road.

My grin returns.

Now this is getting interesting.

The barrel bounces violently across the asphalt, heading straight for me.

Instead of dodging, I yank the wheel and drive straight into it. Flames explode across my windshield in an instant.

My Charger catches fire.

I always coat parts of the car in flammable compounds for moments exactly like this. Gotta put on a show before a race.

Crimson Velocity isn’t afraid of fire.

We are the fucking fire.

I drift around another barrel, smoke curling from my tires.

I love races like this, when everything's messy and unpredictable.

I spot an amateur ahead and immediately cut in front of them, fishtailing hard enough to force the driver to slam on the brakes.

“Fucking amateurs,” I scoff. “Always predictable.”

I keep driving, analyzing every movement around me.