Page 23 of Racer

Miller was in the lead, as expected. His silver and red Dodge Challenger glinted under the lights, dipping and diving through turns with calculated aggression. But as he came into the third hairpin, something was off.

I felt it in my gut before I could name it. Call it instinct born of years of racing. Years of wrecks. And years of watching men die for less than a split-second mistake.

Miller should’ve braked, throttled back, and clipped the inside curve. Instead, the car surged.

“Did he just…?” Emily’s voice was tight.

Dread sat in my stomach like a lead weight.

The engine growled, louder than it should’ve. The car didn’t downshift. It lurched and overcorrected. He swerved to avoid clipping the wall, and I saw the moment he tried to stop—desperately stabbing the brakes, steering into the skid—but the Charger didn’t respond.

“The lights on the dash are still lit up,” I told Kane, already moving.

“What the fuck—” Kane bit out as he followed.

The car twisted again, then slammed nose-first into the barrier on the far end of the track, just shy of the pit entrance. The crowd roared in confusion and panic as the impact sent the car spinning out, tires locked, body rattling.

Then the worst happened.

The front end caught fire. Not just smoke. Flames.

“FUCK!” I started running.

Kane was at my heels, shouting into his comm. Edge jumped off the platform, cutting through the pit crew like a knife.

Miller’s car had stalled partially sideways. Fire danced from beneath the hood, licking toward the windshield, bright orangeagainst the gloss of steel. I slid across the asphalt, my boots skidding as I reached the driver’s side.

The fucking engine was still running. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I yanked on the door, but it was locked—jammed from the impact. Smoke was filling the cabin fast.

“Miller!” I shouted, pounding on the glass. His eyes were fluttering—barely conscious.

“Shut it down!” Kane roared behind me.

“I fuckingcan’t!” Edge shouted back, trying the kill switch near the wheel well.

Emily was suddenly beside us, fire extinguisher in hand, blasting the flames near the hood as I shouted at Miller again, pounding harder on the window. My blood was surging with white-hot adrenaline.

“Stand back!” I bellowed, hauling back with everything I had and slamming my boot into the side window once, twice—glass spiderwebbed—then a third time until it shattered inward. Miller would have some cuts, but they’d be nothing compared to the burns if we didn’t get him the fuck out of that car.

Flames popped somewhere beneath the engine block, and a fresh tongue of fire shot toward the windshield.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Edge reached through the busted window and popped the latch from the inside, then I yanked the door open. Kane grabbed Miller’s arm as I used the knife from my waistband to cut the harness.

Miller was limp. Singed and bleeding. But still alive.

We dragged him out seconds before the flames reached the fuel line. I felt the heat change—the pressure shift—and I shoved Kane hard just as the entire front end detonated.

The blast threw me back, blinding my eyes with the sudden light. I landed hard on my shoulder, ears ringing, and the world reeling.

And that was when the rage hit.

Not just from the pain in my ribs or the raw scorch of my palms from dragging Miller out of a burning coffin—but the truth I was now certain of.

This wasn't a performance failure. And it wasn’t some random malfunction.

Someone had fucked with that car. And they had meant to kill him.

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