Page 118 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

My chest tightens. Tommy's name always hits like a sucker punch, but hearing it here, in this place that's supposed to be about training kids to race—

"Sweet boy, maintain focus. I can see elevated heart rate from here."

Mira's voice through the earpiece makes my pulse spike for entirely different reasons. The way she says 'sweet boy' like a promise and a threat rolled together. My fingers tap nervous rhythms against my phone in my pocket.

"Yeah, I remember." I force a grin. "Feels like yesterday."

"That's what I love about you, kid. Always sentimental." Gideon claps my shoulder, leading me deeper into the facility. "Let me show you the new training equipment. Some of our advanced programs require special logistics coordination."

The garage bay doors stand open, letting in waves of California heat that make sweat gather at my collar. The familiar sounds wash over me—engines revving from student practice sessions, the squeal of tires, instructors shouting corrections.

The smell of motor oil and burning rubber should comfort me, but something feels wrong. The acrid undertone of metal and human sweat doesn't belong in a racing academy.

"Logistics coordination?" I keep my voice casual, interested.

"Supply chain management. International partnerships." His tone shifts slightly, more businesslike. "You understand how expensive proper training equipment is. Sometimes we need creative funding solutions."

The metallic taste of adrenaline floods my mouth. Creative funding solutions.

"Target is leading you toward the shipping area. Thermal shows three additional signatures in receiving dock."

Mira's tactical update cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I force myself to nod at Gideon like he's making perfect sense.

"Makes sense. Racing's always been about finding sponsors."

"Exactly! You always were the smart one." That proud smile again, the one that used to make me stand taller. "The beauty is, our international partnerships provide training opportunities our students never imagined."

We're walking toward the back of the facility now, past the student areas toward the shipping docks. Each step feels heavier than the last.

"What kind of opportunities?"

"Well, that depends on their particular talents."

Fear tastes like copper pennies as his words hit me like ice water.

The doors to the shipping area open, and my world shifts completely.

Banks of monitors line the walls, each showing different racing circuits. Phoenix International Raceway. Sonoma County. Laguna Seca. Six different screens, six different academy locations, each with real-time data streams. Communication equipment that looks military-grade. Charts tracking shipping schedules overlaid with racing event calendars.

"Holy shit."

The words slip out before I can stop them. This isn't just about Lynch Racing Academy. This is a command center.

"Language, kid." Gideon chuckles, but his eyes are sharp now. Watching my reaction. "Impressed? Took three years to build this coordination network."

Viktor Kazakov stands at the central console, speaking in rapid Russian through a headset. He glances at me, nods to Gideon, then turns back to his screens.

European supply chain operational. Next shipment arrives Thursday.

Viktor's accent is thick, but the meaning cuts through me like glass.

"Sweet boy, stay calm. I'm reading your vitals."

Mira's voice through the earpiece is steady, professional. But I hear the edge underneath.

I move closer to the displays, pretending casual interest while memorizing shipping codes. My fingers tap nervous rhythms against my thigh—evidence gathering under pressure.

"Racing academies in six states." Gideon follows my movement, pointing at different markers. His hand hovers over each location like he's conducting an orchestra of crime. "Each one a hub for specialized transportation during racing season. Brilliant, really. Who questions buses moving kids to racing events?"