Mile fifty. The tunnel section. Ace activated the S-7’s active aero, the wings flattening, the underbody glowing blue as it suctioned to the tarmac. He shot into the dark like a bullet. For three miles, there was only the hum of the turbines and the flicker of his own heartbeat on the monitor.
The race was the Trans-Sierra Desolation , a 500-mile outlaw sprint through the razorback turns of the Sierra Muerta. No rules. No finish line cameras. Just a rusty radio tower at the end and the honor of being the first to reach it.
Ace skidded to a halt, inches from her door.
“Well then, speed racer,” she said, tossing it to him. “Welcome to the party.” Speed Racer
Her car, the Cherry Bomb , was a relic—a roaring, crimson muscle car from a century ago, held together by welding scars and sheer will. She had no sponsor, no telemetry, not even a working radio. Just a lead foot and a smile that Ace could see in his rearview as they lined up at the unmarked start.
Ace’s blood turned to ice. “OmniCore, what is this?”
“System override. Disabling torque vectoring. Engaging safety shutdown.” Mile fifty
The finish was a narrow slot canyon—too narrow for two.
He let the S-7 slide, ignored its shrieking warnings, and dove into the final canyon. Rose followed, her head-to-head battle now a partnership. They ran side by side, inches apart, their wake tearing chunks from the canyon walls.
Something inside Ace—something he’d buried under years of contracts and telemetry—snapped. He shot into the dark like a bullet
His earpiece crackled with the cold voice of his sponsor. “The S-7 is an asset, Mr. Callahan. We’ve collected enough telemetry data from this run. A victory would bring unwanted regulatory attention. Stand down.”
Behind him, the Cherry Bomb howled. Rose didn’t take the hairpin. She drifted through it, painting a quarter-mile arc of rubber on the asphalt, her engine roaring like a caged beast.
Then the S-7 spoke. Not Rose. The car.
But Rose wasn’t dancing. She was brawling . She slammed the Cherry Bomb into each apex, using the guardrails as bumpers, shaving off milliseconds with pure, desperate grit. Her engine overheated, spitting steam. Her tires began to shred.