Page 24

I reach into the glovebox for a bottle of water and down half of it in one pull. I breathe through my nose and blink hard. The muscle in my left calf twinges from the downshifts. Worth it.

Out there on the pavement, the world made sense again. Not because I won. Not because I proved anything.

Because for five minutes, I wasn’t trapped inside my own head. I was the one in control.

Just me and the road.

I’m still coasting on fumes and focus when I reach the edge of the lot. My helmet’s off, clutched under one arm, sweat dripping from my temple. The crowd noise stays behind me, stretched out in layers—engines roaring, bass lines vibrating through dented hoods, someone shouting about the next lineup. It’s a chaotic pulse, but it fades the closer I get to my car.

And then I see him.

A man leans against the hood like he owns it. He doesn’t move when I approach. Just shifts his weight, slow and smug. Button-down shirt rolled to the elbows. Sharp pants, too clean for this place. He’s not here for speed.

He’s here for me.

“Nice run,” he says, head tilted just enough to catch my eyes. “Falcone. You still drive like a ghost.”

I stop three feet away, body cooling fast. I drop the helmet onto the hood beside his elbow. Hard enough to make a point.

“Wrong name,” I say.

He grins. Not wide. Just enough to show he enjoys being a step ahead. “You sure? ’Cause the price on your head says otherwise.”

My stomach tightens. I don’t move.

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a folded square of glossy paper. Tosses it at the car. It lands photo-side up.

There I am. Mid-race. Face visible. Focused. Barely blurred.

The shot’s clean.

“Found that on a ledger two weeks ago,” he says, tapping the corner of the image. “Didn’t believe it at first. They said you were dead. Buried under fire and bullshit.”

He steps away from the car, casual like we’re old friends meeting at a bar.

“Then I saw you tonight.”

I take one step back. My right hand settles near the loop of my jeans where I keep a knife tucked, just in case. My pulse doesn’t spike. It just flattens, thins out into clean lines.

“You gonna make a move,” I ask, “or just talk like a clown?”

His smile fades, just a fraction. But he doesn’t look worried.

“Clara,” he says. “That’s what they call you now, yeah? In the shop. With your new face and new friends.” He leans in, and I don’t flinch. “But it’s still you.”

Before I can shift my stance, I feel it.

A presence behind me. Quick steps. The scrape of shoes on gravel. Then an arm slams across my collarbone, yanking me backward.

My body acts before my brain catches up.

I twist left. Drop my weight. Drive my elbow straight back into the gut behind me—no hesitation. It connects hard. The guy grunts, and I whip around, slamming a second elbow intohis nose. Blood sprays, bright and hot. He stumbles. I follow it up with a knee that crushes his side. He crumples with a wet wheeze, hitting the ground like trash.

I stay loose. Ready.

“Next time, don’t lead with your chin,” I mutter, stepping over him.

Javier Cruz just watches. Amused. Like he brought a dog to a knife fight and enjoyed the show.