Nitrous kits didn’t look like much when they were disguised. He knew that too well.
“Alternatives that show up on the series bulletins?” Hank asked, gaze steady. “The ones warning about counterfeit parts and ‘unapproved chemical enhancements’?”
A couple of the younger riders shifted, glancing between them.
The man’s smile didn’t falter. “Bulletins are for scared people,” he said. “Guys who like their rules neat. Racing’s always been about pushing limits.”
“Limits,” Hank said. “Not safety. That’s where you lose me.”
Behind the man, one of the riders spoke up. “Hey, my cousin said his buddy got black-flagged for using one of those kits,” he said. “His engine nearly blew.”
“That’s operator error,” the vendor said smoothly. “You follow our specs, you’re golden.”
Hank took a small step closer, enough that the riders had to shift to keep him in their peripheral vision. “You know what happens when your engine goes south at a hundred and fifty?” he asked. “You don’t get to blame the guy who sold you the ‘budget boost.’ You’re the one sliding across the asphalt. Or into the wall. Or not getting up at all.”
A hush fell over the small group. The vendor’s jaw ticked once.
“Look, man,” he said. “We’re just showing options. Nobody’s forcing anybody.”
Diaz’s voice cut in, cool and conversational. “That’s the nice thing about options,” she said, approaching. “They go both ways.”
The vendor’s gaze flicked to her badge, visible for a heartbeat as she shifted her jacket. Something hard passed behind his eyes.
“Sergeant,” he said. “Afternoon.”
“Afternoon,” she replied. “I’m sure you already checked in with management and provided full documentation on all your products for liability purposes.”
He spread his hands. “We’re just handing out brochures,” he said. “Free country.”
Diaz studied the small canister in the open box. “You’re right,” she said. “It is. It’s also my county. And in my county, traveling salesmen of miracle performance solutions need permits. Which I don’t see.”
“Didn’t realize we needed a hall pass for talking,” he said.
“You don’t,” she said. “But you do for commerce. Why don’t we go chat about that in my office while these nice folks enjoy their track time?”
The man hesitated. For a second, Hank’s muscles coiled, waiting for the wrong choice.
Then the vendor shrugged, all easy charm again. “Sure,” he said. “Can’t say no to an invitation from law enforcement.”
As he moved away with Diaz and her partner, he glanced back once. The look he sent Hank was pure calculation.
Message received. You’re in this.
One of the younger riders cleared his throat. “So, uh,” he said. “Those things really that bad?”
Hank considered his answer. He could scare them. Lecture them. Or he could tell the truth in a way that might stick.
“I’ve seen what happens when they go wrong,” he said quietly. “I’ve held helmets that were still warm. There’s no podium worth that. You want to get faster? I’ll walk your line with you. I’ll look at your setup. Hell, I’ll introduce you to Colby and Brian. They’ll find you a tenth in your suspension before you ever need a bottle.”
Brian nodded. “We’ll look at your bikes,” he said. “Free. No strings. You show up with those kits on your machines, though, we’re out. And I will personally tell Diaz you’ve got a death wish.”
The kids looked at each other. Slowly, a few nodded.
“Yeah,” one said. “Okay. I’d rather not die for a trophy.”
Hank clapped him on the shoulder. “Good call,” he said.
By late afternoon, his head buzzed with numbers, forms, and the echo of engines.
