Ace saw it. So did Rose.
The canyon wind didn’t just whistle; it screamed. For most drivers, that sound was a warning. For Ace “The Ghost” Callahan, it was a lullaby.
Then the S-7 spoke. Not Rose. The car.
He braked first. Just a touch. Just enough to let the Cherry Bomb’s cracked fender slip past.
She hadn’t taken the tunnel. She’d taken the goat trail over the mountain. A crumbling dirt path that no sane driver would attempt. Her right headlight was smashed, and the Cherry Bomb wore a fresh coat of dust and defiance. Speed Racer
Rose laughed—a real, thunderous laugh. She reached down and pulled a bottle of cheap tequila from her shredded glovebox.
Behind them, the S-7 beeped a lonely, automated alert. Ace didn’t look back. Some ghosts, he realized, are meant to be laid to rest. And some roads are meant to be driven with your hands, not your head. Ace saw it
Mile fifty. The tunnel section. Ace activated the S-7’s active aero, the wings flattening, the underbody glowing blue as it suctioned to the tarmac. He shot into the dark like a bullet. For three miles, there was only the hum of the turbines and the flicker of his own heartbeat on the monitor.
Ace punched the throttle. The S-7 responded like a panther, its electric turbines whining a frequency that made his teeth ache. He took the first hairpin at 140, his neural-linked steering reading his thoughts before his hands could move. Perfect. Clinical. Ghost-like. For most drivers, that sound was a warning
He walked up to her, pulled off his helmet, and for the first time in years, smiled. It felt like cracking a rusted bolt.
Ace pulled ahead. The radio tower was five miles out. Victory was his.