For a few laps, it’s clean. Almost fun. The Camaro handles like she’s reading my mind. I forget the stakes, the danger, the fact that I’m on Rey’s turf with my name one whisper away from getting me buried.
And then—
I see them.
Two guys near the south barricade, half in shadow, leaning just far enough into the light for me to catch the tattoos on their throats. Rey’s crew. Not the party kind. Therealones. The guards.
Fuck.
It takes only a second. We blur past, but my eyes lock with one of them. Bald head, scar on his temple, a grimace sewn onto his face. I know him. And he knows me. Last spring he nearly killed Baker in a turf meet-up. I broke his arm to make him back off.
Oh, hell no.
We’re already gone, but cold slides down my spine. You don’t forget the guy who broke your arm—especially not when you’ve been hunting him for a year and a half.
My grip tightens. Lark notices.
“What?” she shouts.
Fuck.
My mind races. Did the hair cover me? It was just a split second. Maybe he didn’t recognize me.
“Quick question,” I breathe. “How fast would your contact text you if something went wrong with our in?”
Her smile drops.
“Talon…”
“Just answer me.”
She doesn’t. She yanks her phone from her pocket and curses as a message pops up. She doesn’t read it out loud, but I can guess it says something like:What the fuck did you bring me into, Lark? Your driver’s a Fisher boy.
Heh. There you go, Talon—drink the shit you brew.
“Talon,” Lark says again, panic creeping into her voice. “What the hell is going on?”
Only one answer fits.
“They know,” I say, gunning the Camaro into the next corner harder than I should. Tires shriek. The backend fishtails.
“Know what?!”
“Who I am.”
She stares at me, confused—and fair enough. Even she doesn’t know who I really am. But she can connect the dots. I keep my eyes on the road, pushing the Camaro so hard the engine snarls like it wants to tear itself free.
The two crew boys vanish into the crowd as we rocket past the next bend.
My gut twists.
“We need to get out of here,” I say.
That makes her blink. Then: “No. Hell no.” Her voice is sharp. “You gotta finish the race, dude. Just get to the finish line, then we’ll run.”
“What the fuck will that do?!”
She grabs my arm. “It’s ten grand.”
