I recognize the sardonic laugh that responds to my best friend’s question even before Mason identifies himself with his choice of words. “Because you fucked me over. Not only did you get involved and make me lose face with my uncle, you turned him to your side. He’s been so fucking pumped about this stupid racetrack that he’s told me that if I want to work for him, theonly job he has for me is as a waiter at his restaurant. Or I can go back east to work for my father.”
“I don’t give a shit what you do.” Chance bites out. “But since you love California so much, you could extend your stay in one of our fine correctional facilities.”
The background noise coming from Chance’s radio tells me that they’re fighting.
I keep my eyes on Zara, but I’m worried about Chance. I wouldn’t put it past Mason Morelli to be packing heat.
“Step back.” Morelli demands.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
The noise of a motorcycle engine comes through the radio.
“Guys,” Chance says. “Morelli took the MTT, and he’s trying to come onto the racetrack.”
“What the fuck?” Ares barks. “Stop him.”
John’s voice comes through next. “Yeah, but to stop him, we’d have to catch him. The race director has announced that the race is suspended, so the bikes behind you should slow down before they’re at the spoon curve. Watch out for Zara, guys. There are cops everywhere around the perimeter of the racetrack, right outside the tarmac. They’ll take care of the dirt bike and Mason Morelli. Just make sure you don’t get hurt before they’re stopped.”
John is right. The police can go after the dirt bike and Morelli. Zara is our priority.
We see it the second we come out of the narrow section that leads into the spoon curve. Every time the mystery racer has invaded the racetrack, he’s done it by cutting horizontally across the track. This time the dirt bike is coming toward us, going in the opposite direction from the bikes that are racing.
Despite the weather forecast, the drizzle of a few minutes ago has turned into moderate rain. Not enough to pose a real threat if we were riding at low speed on a regular road, but enoughto make the conditions on the racetrack treacherous, especially with the wrong tires.
The day Atlas died, the mysterious racer had allegedly stolen one of Fox’s team’s spare motorcycles. But since they reappeared in Star Cove, they’ve been on the same dirt bike that’s coming toward us at breakneck speed.
Something has been bothering me since the first time I saw that dirt bike, but for the life of me, I haven’t been able to work out what it is.
The realization hits me this time. How could I not have remembered this sooner? The dirt bike’s tires look pretty worn, and they have even less traction than our unsuitable tires on a wet track. That causes it to skid slightly sideways as it barrels toward us, the racer having to struggle to keep from sliding off the track.
“Zee, slow down.” I say. “The track’s too slippery. But get away from the middle of the track once we’re into the spoon curve. You don’t want to be hit by a bike coming from behind you.”
“What about the dirt bike?” Zara asks.
“Let me and Ares take care of it.”
I should have known that Zara would never accept that.
“No way. They’re gonna get away. We have to surround them.”
It’s too dangerous, especially because we have no idea where Mason is. Chance’s MTT is nowhere in sight.
I know there’s no way in hell of convincing Zara to back down. “Fine. Then you slow down and block them from exiting the track horizontally. The other bikes will block them from continuing against the flow of the race; the track is too narrow before the spoon curve. Ares and I are gonna turn around and block their way back to where they came from. Zee if they chase you, exit the track. Don’t let them hit you.”
“Copy that.” Zara says.
Ares’s confirmation is barely above a furious growl. But he knows as well as I do that Zara is determined to be in on the action.
“Ares,” I warn him. “Do your best not to hit that motherfucker. I’m almost positive I know who’s under that black helmet.”
My best friend doesn’t argue with me, and I say a silent prayer to the racing gods that we all walk away from this without a scratch.
We work like a well-oiled machine. Zara gets out from the direct collision course, turning her Ducati to block the way out of the tarmac and into the gravel trap that borders that side of the track.
Lev and I ride past the dirt bike, dodging it, and turn to stop behind it.
The dirt bike is going too fast, headed for the mouth of the spoon curve. When they don’t see Zara’s Ducati where they expect it to be, they swerve to turn in an attempt to hit it.
