“Yeah,” Hank said. “And look at the plates.”
Diaz had texted him a partial plate to watch for. The state matched. So did the first three characters.
He felt eyes on him before he saw Diaz.
She stood near the concession stand, plainclothes, hair pulled back. Sunglasses hid her eyes, but the tilt of her head told him she’d clocked the van too. Another man leaned casually beside her, pretending to be absorbed in his phone. Backup.
“You want to ride or work?” Brian asked.
“Work,” Hank said.
They walked toward the cluster like they had every right to be there. Because they did.
The man in the jacket noticed them at once; his smile brightened, shark-quick.
“Well, well,” he said. “Celebrity drop-in. Hank James, right? Hell of a race last weekend.”
Hank gave him a polite nod. “Appreciate it,” he said.
“Come to see what the grassroots scene is doing?” the guy asked. His accent had a hint of Northeast, flattened by time. “We’re helping some of these kids find a little extra power on a budget.”
“On a budget,” Brian repeated, tone mild.
“Factory support’s expensive,” the man said. “We offer alternatives.” He flipped open one of the boxes for the riders’ benefit. Inside sat a series of glossy brochures and a small metal canister with a generic label.
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.
