by Vivien Vale
I know what to do, and if I can pull this off I might be able to save Braden, myself, and the future of both our teams.
Braden
I really enjoy the anticipation of things. That’s why I’m usually as happy as you’ll ever find me when I’m getting close to the track, knowing that the unbeatable fucking feeling of sitting on top of an earthbound rocket, propelling myself past anyone who would even think about considering themselves my competition with ridiculous ease, is finally within my grasp.
The only thing that comes close is knowing that I’m going to see Jenna soon.
That’s a new one for me.
That’s what makes this call even more maddening than I expected it to be. The track is getting closer, but I’m feeling none of the usual fire.
I’m glad to have my sources inside the bureau, but this time the news is veering too damn far from what I wanted to hear.
“When you say the word tonight, it sounds like a mistake,” I bark into the phone, “because then it would be pretty much underway already. How is that even possible?”
“It’s the way things work sometimes…often.” The words coming through the other end sound smug and assured. “Everyone’s giving him shit. The agent, I mean. And that means he’s planning to make it all happen tonight—and I mean tonight, with nothing fucking figurative about it. I recognize the mode he’s in. It’s something every agent goes into sometimes. He’s hell bent on doing everything in his power to make this happen, including gathering what he needs. I’m as confident about that as anything.”
“Right.” I hang up with that word.
If I had to guess what things were really like inside an agency operating at the highest hierarchal levels, I sure as fuck wouldn’t guess in a million years that it was the same gossipy office politics and petty one-upmanship that’s rampant everywhere else.
I don’t know why, though, because it makes perfect fucking sense.
A few more minutes to the racetrack, and I’m hitting speeds that are usually transcendent for me. This isn’t feeling like the highlight of my day, or much else.
The racing’s been going great for a while, but with Jenna in my life now, things that were once great are suddenly going amazing. I’m compelled to share everything with her.
Now it looks like that’s going to cost me everything.
This can’t be it, after what we’ve done, what we’ve been through, and all those things I’ve begun to feel. There’s never been anything like this, not for me.
She can’t possibly be working to bring everything apart. I don’t want to fucking believe it.
I keep thinking about how close I’m getting to the track, but it seems to be getting further. It’s like every block is getting longer, and it gets worse the more I accelerate.
How could Jenna do this? How could she fucking do this?
Charging like mad down the final stretch, I see the track, and it’s a relief that it’s finally getting closer. I go through that whiney-bitch sounding question one more time.
How could Jenna do this?
This is all psychological combat. I don’t know who’s sending out the signal, whether it’s originating with just the agent or there’s a larger scheme coming from the bureau, but these bastards figured out how to get to me.
I don’t gently shift gears, I barely even steer, I just unthinkingly press down the brake and skid over to the curb.
Now that I’ve probably figured it out, I need to give myself just a minute.
I should absolutely be furious, and I am. I’m not somebody to play mind games with. However, I feel a massive relief, and I realize that I’m breathing easily for the first time in a few minutes.
It’s not Jenna, after all. She’s not trying to steal my plans for herself. I knew it couldn’t be, was fucking sure of it, and that’s a sign of something. I’m not sure what that something is yet, but it feels great.
What if it is, though?
Fuck. There are those goddamn mind games again. I hate the invasiveness of it, and all over a fucking mod—a mod that no one has a good reason to concern themselves with.
This whole thing is such a waste, and it’s becoming so needlessly destructive, but my impulses take over again as I shift back into gear and start flying to the track. I feel the fire, the rapture of high speed, and the anticipation of things soon to come on all levels.
The streets look abandoned, and everything is rushing by like magic.
I was just thinking about how the worst part of all this is not knowing what’s going to happen next, but as I transition into a higher gear, barely even processing the blur in front of me, I realize the best part of all this is not knowing what comes next.
The faster the race car goes, the more control you give it. Your reaction times and manoeuvres begin to lose meaning, but when you get as good as I am, you can learn to harness the wild speed—to channel the untamed power and make it yours.
That’s when you can start embracing what comes next, whether you can predict it or not. It’s all part of the awesome, wild storm, and you’ve learned not to lose yourself in it no matter what.
I’ve learned that. At least I hope I have, because if this G-Man has something to prove to his buddies, I better know not just how to ride but also how to control the shitstorm that’s brewing at this very moment.
I won’t see anything there, though. This is a wild-goose chase, but that’s the best kind of chase for the absurd bullshit of this situation.
Things are getting dark, in a real sense, when I start powering around the perimeter of the track. There’s no one else here except for maybe one or two drivers. I’m not noticing much; these mental tricks are still playing with me in surges, coming and going.
I just hope I’m doing it to myself. Like the way I’m racing right now, feeling the raw energy of my vehicle but staying on top of it.
Okay, who the fuck are they, anyway?
This is the second time I’ve seen those two shadowy figures, those blurry shapes that I’m rapidly approaching. Whatever the fuck they’re doing, it doesn’t seem like a natural part of the racetrack life that I know every particle of by now.
One figure is handing a document—a whole folder, in fact—to another. I really wish I didn’t know who both of them are, but I won’t be able to deny it for much longer.
I’m stopping way too quickly again, the word downshift disappearing from my vocabulary. I’m braking hard, sliding, almost losing control.
Of course, I don’t fucking lose control. Ever.
I come to a beautifully askew stop just a few feet away from Jenna. No, that’s not...yes, there’s no doubt that’s her.
What the actual fuck?
Jenna’s right there. I know now that my worst fears are about to be confirmed. I can’t delude myself into thinking there’s anything else she’s doing here.
She’s talking to another man, and she doesn’t look happy to be doing it.
She doesn’t look reluctant either. It’s a weird look, because I pulled up so fast it’s like I’m studying a still frame. Despite the world-shuddering I must’ve caused pulling up, along with the odor of burning rubber and the vision of my racer drawing closer at an alarming trajectory, the recognition that I’m here is somehow only now dawning on her face.
Some fucking federal agent, too, who’s also just now turning around. What the fuck did they think was happening? Jenna should’ve spotted me sooner, but this must be challenging for her.
This job she’s doing.
This betrayal.
It’s no joke; he’s making it happen, like he said. But that’s not even in the running to be my top concern right now.
One thing I can gather from this sloppy farce I’ve driven in on is that my Fed friend here is rushing things. If he let this bullshit play out more naturally, they might have had my ass reeled in more securely.
They. I cannot fucking believe it. I grind my teeth so hard I hear my jaw creak.
The still frame of
Jenna’s reaction is morphing into slow motion, especially since Mr. fucking Federale is just now turning around to face me. Good going, dipshit.
Here comes the wild storm. It’s not coming from an engine this time, but it feels as overwhelming as ever, with an untameable intensity.
How could Jenna do this?
That dumb question again—all part of the mental warfare from this weasel who’s daring to try and face me directly right now.
I’m ahead of the wild storm, as usual, channelling it as a sturdy fist right to the G-Man’s jaw. I can hear the transferred energy in the forceful popping sound that echoes across the empty track.
Like I said, some federal agent, crumpling to the ground in pain. Whether or not he ever trained to be prepared for that, he certainly wasn’t ready.
Jenna’s not ready either. Nothing’s playing in slow motion anymore. I’m watching her shock register at regular speed.
There’s no more wild storm, just disappointment. With the brief look I give Jenna, I make sure she sees it.
The disbelief on Jenna’s face is slowly changing as she tries to think of something to say. She doesn’t even notice that I snatched the folder right out of her hand until it’s safely in mine.
I have to move past this as quickly as possible, though. I’m back on the right and flying away through the streets before Jenna has any chance to react.
Speeding away from the ache in my chest as if I’m in the most significant race of my life.
But this is one race I don’t think I’ll be able to win.
Jenna
The only other times I’ve felt like I do right now is when I’ve just been in a car accident. I mean, right after that moment of impact, after feeling a two-ton, swiftly moving metal machine come to an abrupt halt, slamming every bit of its kinetic energy into the rear of your own vehicle, which is innocently waiting at a red light.
During those moments, there’s a brief little ripple of denial, at least for me.
That didn’t just happen. No way. It was nothing. I can just keep driving like normal.
That’s the way I feel about seeing Braden tear into my meeting with Harrison like the proverbial bat out of hell.
That’s an expression I now understand all too well.
That kind of ferociousness is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, from Braden or anyone. It’s as unreal as a sudden accident, except this is no accident.
Although Braden’s long gone now, I’m starting to register it as reality. Harrison recovering from Braden’s blow to the face is driving it home.
This isn’t happenstance; this is a huge fucking complication that I need to adjust to, somehow, although with the other complication of Harrison stalking toward me and looking pissed, I don’t know if that’s possible.
“This is what’s going to happen,” he begins, and I immediately go wide-eyed, trying to convey that I have no clue what’s going on.
I watch Harrison, waiting to hear what he’ll say next, but there are no more words. I’m face down on the ground, feeling Harrison’s grip on my arms and the cold sting of metal around my wrists. I yell wordlessly in protest, but it’s over before I grasp everything that’s happening.
I hear Harrison stand up, and I climb up unsteadily, using my legs until I’m standing as well.
My hands are cuffed tightly behind my back, and I’m trying to push away another bout of denial about this mess.
I don’t have time for that before Harrison shoves me hard with both hands.
I twist to my right side while plummeting back to the ground. I don’t have the option of using a hand to break my fall and though I instinctually fall on my right shoulder, I don’t know if those instincts are right.
My shoulder slams against the paved roadway, and pain radiates through me from the point of impact. My right arm takes some of the brunt of the fall, which is probably the only reason I don’t seem to have any major injuries as I squirm on the ground and try to stand up again.
I roll over onto my right side, and I hear Harrison’s car start, followed immediately by the sound of him burning rubber after Braden.
There are a few more complications now, to say the least.
I sit up readily as a fresh wave of adrenaline hits. I need to get to my car. Now.
I try to get back upright, only to find a fresh tremor of sharp pain from my right arm. I close my eyes and will myself back on my feet with random bursts of agony that are thankfully getting duller as they go on.
Feeling dizzy, with a throbbing ache still going through my shoulder, I half stagger, half gallop around, almost blindly, until I magnetically end up outside the driver’s side of my car.
I shut my eyes, cursing my past self for closing the door. I revolve myself around so that my left hand is lined up with the handle, and I’m able to get enough grip to lift the handle and get the door open a couple inches.
I walk backward gingerly and pry open the door with my left foot, leaning against the car for balance.
My keys are still in the ignition. At least they’re not in one of my front pockets.
I try sitting in the driver’s seat, facing forward. Fuck. If I can’t even turn the key, I probably won’t be able to steer.
I turn my right side toward the keys helplessly, feeling the fading bursts of pain from my shoulder. I don’t even get close to turning the key that way.
I kick the floor mat in frustration, and I’d love to do that a few more times while yelling at the futility of trying to catch up with Braden and Harrison, but there’s no time.
I twist over onto my right side, trying to turn around in the seat, but it still hurts just a little too fucking much for that. I sit forward again, let out a sigh, give the floor mat a huge kick, and with a yell, I start twisting again, turning counter clockwise onto my left side.
I start grunting with every movement as it gets more and more uncomfortable. I try to keep my legs and feet from hitting the steering wheel and everything else.
I’m not as graceful as I could be.
Once I’m facing backward in the seat, I’m able to reach the door handle to try and pull it closed.
It closes; hopefully I’ll be able to get it open again. I try not to think about the situation I’ll be in when I need to.
I slowly reach toward the ignition with my left hand, pulling my right arm and shoulder with it.
I start letting out an ongoing primal yell to conduct the pain away. I stop when I feel the plastic of the key grip in my left hand.
And I turn it.
Now the engine’s started, and it’s just a small matter of getting myself forward again.
And getting the car in gear.
And steering.
And catching up with Harrison and Braden and then...
I stop considering all of it, and I twist right back around so I’m facing forward.
I lean as far right as I can, gritting my teeth. I press my right arm down on the automatic gear shifter.
Okay, okay, it isn’t so bad. I’m seeing flashes of white light, and I’m yelling inadvertently, but I start moving the shifter backward.
Oh, no, oh, please, I can’t pass out...
After moving the lever back two spots, I snap back up reflexively. My arm and my shoulder are refusing to cooperate with that any longer.
Now I’m in neutral, and the car is moving whether I’m ready for it or not. I close my knees tight around the bottom half of the steering wheel, my feet just barely able to reach the accelerator and the brake.
Steering is surprisingly easy, but the car’s moving faster than I thought it would, with a slight downhill slope heading away from the racetrack. I close my eyes again, and with an aggressive scream of pain and fury, I lean over and shift the transmission one more spot, putting the car in drive.
Getting onto public streets, I’m trying to look and act casual. I’m confused enough at this point. I don’t want extra attention.
I’m coasting along at about 35, trying to ease on th
e brake to not go much faster. I don’t think catching up with Braden is a hope worth harboring. He’s probably somewhere in Connecticut by now. Or Maine.
Why did he show up anyway? There’s no coincidence here that much is certain.
How much did he know beforehand? Why did he grab those false documents? How could he know they’re false? He can’t. He doesn’t know that I made my own fake blueprints.
I know this is bad, but it’s getting worse.
I pump the brakes slightly, getting into a busier area. I don’t feel like moving this slow anymore, but I know my only other choice is to make the next right, and those few blocks are not ones you’d want to steer with your knees.
Fuck, that’s probably where Braden went with the blueprints. He has way more control than I do right now, but he knows way less about the situation. That’s a horrible combination of circumstances, just like trying to navigate away from the fairly even grid of straight streets I’m on to try and pilot this car along the alpine windiness around the next corner.
On a good day, with full use of my limbs, accelerator, and brake pedal, I can do just fine on those precipitous drops and sudden curves. In my current condition, I can probably do okay. Besides, I need to save Braden’s ass.
I blow right through a yellow light just changing to red, now dropping to around 30, approaching the right turn. There’s less of a slope now. I’m dropping in speed, and jamming on the accelerator is not doing much.
I thought I knew these streets as well as anyone, but as I try to maintain my speed and steering, I’m learning about the subtle changes in terrain, about the way this street slopes down more approaching the turn as the speedometer approaches 40.
I ease down on the brake pedal, watching the speedometer needle fall too fast. I’m almost at the turn, though, a sharp right—sharper than any turn I’ve tried yet while handcuffed and driving with my knees.
My speed is down to around 20 with the turn, and I violently twist toward the right. There’s still an aching pressure on my right side, but that’s almost gone. Better still, my tense dance steers the car peacefully around the corner before the power steering takes over.