Page 8 of Racer

I froze. Just for a second. Long enough for the wrench in my hand to slip, nicking my knuckle.

I should have known there would be a new racer to replace my brother. Kane needed to keep things running. There were races to win.

But it still felt like being punched in the chest.

Mason wasn’t even awake yet, and someone was already slipping into his shadow while people outside our circle were saying he’d caused the crash.

It pissed me off, but I didn’t say anything. Just tightened the bolt and kept working.

I finished up the last brake bleed and handed the tools off to Piston, wiping my hands on a rag as I stepped away from the car.

Engines still roared in the background. From the edge of the pit, I could see the finish line, a blur of heat waves and smoke where tires had eaten up the road.

The crowd screamed as the lead driver crossed, but the noise barely registered.

I was too wrapped up in the hole my brother left behind to really care who won.

The space Mason should’ve filled was still empty…and someone else would be standing in it soon.

I didn’t know anything about the guy Kane was bringing in except the gossip I’d heard the crew toss around tonight. Some Tennessee racer with a reputation that was bound to make him cocky. Guys like that always acted as if the track owed them something.

But I didn’t care how fast he was or how many wins he had.

I didn’t need a replacement.

I needed answers.

I tossed the rag onto the workbench and turned away from the track, jaw tight with purpose.

Let Kane’s golden boy show up and draw all the attention he wanted.

I was going to figure out what happened to my brother—even if I had to do it all by myself.

3

RACER

The Redline Kings’ compound was located in a small beach town in Florida called Crossbend, around twenty minutes south of Tallahassee. Like the Iron Rogues, they pretty much owned the whole town and controlled the surrounding areas, especially if they had raceways located there. Up in Tallahassee, Kane owned Redline Speedway, one of the biggest raceways in the state.

He’d also bought or built several smaller ones throughout Florida to host other races. The tracks for the illegal races were mostly old, abandoned properties he converted. He didn’t like street racing because they drew more attention from the cops and were more likely to injure spectators.

Their garage sat a few miles off the main drag, tucked into the back end of a repurposed industrial block that looked like it’d seen more illegal deals and burnout streaks than OSHA inspections. Chain-link fences, razor wire, sun-bleached asphalt baking under the Florida sun. The air reeked of gasoline, exhaust, motor oil, and the faint tinge of smoke from cigarettes or cigars.

My kind of place. I felt right at home.

I rolled in on my Harley, the familiar rumble of the engine purring beneath me. A couple of the guys working outside straightened up when they saw me coming. Both wore a Redline Kings cut. One nudged the other and said something I didn’t catch, but I recognized the posture. Curiosity. Recognition. Anticipation. I’d been racing long enough—both legally and underground—to know when people were itching to see what I could do.

I parked near the front entrance, cut the engine, and slung my leg over the seat, rolling my shoulders out as I walked toward the bay. It had been a long, almost seven-hour ride down here from Old Bridge. Normally, I would enjoy a ride like that, but the heat and humidity—even in April—was oppressive. Next time, I’d have to do it at night when it was cooler.

Heat shimmered off the pavement, the afternoon sun beating down hard, and my boots crunched over grit and loose bolts. A few Redline Kings were leaning near the entrance, watching me as though they were trying to decide whether I was friend or prey. One of them grinned.

“Look what the fuckin’ wind blew in,” a voice called out from inside, causing a grin to stretch wide across my face.

Edge.

Kane’s younger brother and the Redline Kings’ VP. Same lethal bloodline, just wired a little differently. The man had a smile like a movie star and eyes that belonged to a damn psycho. When we met, I liked him immediately. Even if he sometimes seemed a little unhinged.

“Been a while, Edge,” I said, clasping his forearm when he approached.

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