Page 13 of Racer

My stomach flipped. “Bait?”

“We’re trying to draw out whoever’s behind the sabotage. Racer’s flashy. Fast. The kind of driver that’ll piss the right people off. Make ’em sloppy.”

I blinked, stunned for a beat. “That’s the plan? Toss the new guy onto the track and hope the bad guy bites?”

Kane’s jaw flexed. “Trust me, it’ll work. Racer can more than handle himself on and off the circuit. He’s not just any guy behind the wheel. He’s also an Iron Rogues enforcer.”

Scrubbing my palms down my face, I heaved a deep sigh. “I still want to help. There are things I can do from the pit that a driver can’t.”

He shook his head, already stepping back. “Just let Racer handle it.”

“Kane—” I started, but he was already walking away, shoulders tight and done with the conversation.

My fists clenched at my sides.

I hated being sidelined while some cocky out-of-town racer with fast hands and a flirty smile got handed the keys to the whole damn situation.

I was the one who’d been here from the beginning. Who knew these cars inside and out. Whose brother was lying in a hospital bed, barely hanging on.

I wanted to help find the people responsible for his crash more than anything, but Kane was my boss. And Mason’s club president. He wasn’t the kind of guy who’d be okay with me pushing my way into the situation, so I would just need to be sneaky about it behind the scenes. Sometimes you had to ask for forgiveness instead of permission, and I’d take the heat down the line if it came to that.

I stormed back toward one of the Chevelles, grabbing my tablet and tools like they were weapons instead of diagnostics gear.

Of course his road name was Racer. His club brothers might as well have called him Adrenaline McFlashy.

He was probably one of those golden boys who looked good behind the wheel, flashed a grin for the cameras, and didn’tknow jack about the machines he drove. Guys like that pushed too hard, burned through clutches, and blamed the crew when something snapped.

And now Kane had given him my brother’s spot in our world.

I dropped to one knee beside the car, popping off the panel that gave me access to the rear suspension mount. I didn’t even realize my hands were shaking until the ratchet slipped on the bolt and scraped across my knuckles.

“Careful.” The low voice came from behind me.

Twisting around, I glared at him. “What do you want?”

Racer crouched next to me, hands on his knees as he peered into the cavity I’d just exposed. “That bracket looks off. See the weld?”

I opened my mouth to snap something sarcastic, but I paused when I noticed how closely he was looking at the part in question. Turning back around, I flicked my gaze down, following his line of sight.

Damn.He was right.

One of the mounting brackets had the faintest hairline crack near the weld. Not visible at first glance, but enough that, under race stress, it could’ve snapped and launched the driver into a wall or another car.

“You have a good eye,” I muttered, brushing my fingers over the fault line.

He didn’t gloat. Just angled in a little closer. “Mind if I take a look at something?”

I huffed but scooted over slightly.

Racer leaned in and ran a fingertip along the bolt housing on the opposite side. Then he pulled a small flashlight from his back pocket and clicked it on.

“There.” He pointed. “That scoring? Looks like someone used the wrong torque setting. Or maybe they just wanted it to look that way.”

I blinked, then nudged him to the side so I could see better. Sure enough, there was a shallow ring on the metal, inconsistent with our tools.

My mouth went dry.

Someone had tampered with that bolt. Subtly enough that it could’ve passed inspections. But if the bracket failed mid-race…

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