Page 16 of Trip

Rubbing the back of his neck, Mitch sighed. “That’s the part I can’t figure out. You designed that engine. Ansel fronted the green to have it built. He’s made bank on that design. The crew knows that engine inside and out. Yet, something ain’t right. The last two practice runs have blown the engine.”

“Who are the mechanics?” I asked.

“Just Crane. Ansel refused to let anyone else work on it.”

“My dad’s old crew?”

“Left the day after you,” Mitch informed then asked, “What are you thinking, boy?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Well, when you come up with something, let me know ’cause tomorrow you’re back in the game. In the meantime, I need to head out. If I’m late for dinner, Anna will have my ass.”

After walking Mitch to the door, I turned to find my brothers, Scribe and Enigma, standing arms crossed over their chest as Romeo and Gator leaned against the fireplace, all looking at me.

Gator shook his head. “Now, I don’ claim to have the gift, but I know when a brother is blowin’ smoke up my ass. And, brother, Mitch is blowin’ real hard.”

“I agree,” Romeo added. “I know for a fact that Mitch has had his hands in that damn engine. Why would he lie about it?”

“You’re right.” I smirked. “He was lying, and I want to know why. We need to locate my dad’s former pit crew.”

“Best way to do that is to put Ansel on it,” Scribe suggested, and as much as I hated it, I knew he was right. As I glanced at each of them, reading the quiet determination etched into their faces, Scribe’s suggestion hung in the air, almost daring me to dismiss it. But dismissing it would be foolish, and I knew it. Ansel might not be the easiest ally, but he was sharp, resourceful, and had a knack for finding people who didn’t want to be found.

“Fine,” I muttered, dragging a hand through my hair. “We put Ansel on it, but someone’s gonna need to keep tabs on him. He’s not exactly a team player.”

“No arguments there,” Scribe replied, his tone even but his eyes sharp. “I’ll handle him.”

“Good,” I said, nodding. “Gator, Romeo, start digging into Mitch’s story. I want every piece of dirt on him and anyone elsewho might be involved. If he’s got something to hide, we’re going to uncover it.”

“And what about Crane?” Enigma asked, his voice calm but edged with curiosity. “You think he’s still clean?”

I paused, considering Enigma’s question. Crane had always been a straight shooter, but loyalty could shift if the stakes were high enough. “That’s what we’re going to find out,” I said finally. “If Mitch’s got secrets, Crane might know more than he’s letting on. In the meantime, I’m gonna ride over to the track and check things out.”

A plan began to solidify as we divided up the tasks, each brother stepping into their role. Shadows cast across the room, and for a moment, the weight of what lay ahead pressed against my chest.

But it wasn’t fear—it was purpose.

Chapter Seven

Trip

Leaning against the fence, I watched nonchalantly as the racecar sped past, keeping my eyes solely on the car and how it hugged the track until something caught my eyes. I pushed myself off the fence, straightening my back, and took a step closer to the track, my eyes narrowed in focus.

The racecar sped by in a blur of color and sound. The engine’s roar filled my ears. I observed the way the car navigated the twists and turns of the track, taking note of the driver’s skill and the vehicle’s responsiveness. The way she handled the hairpin turn, with a slight drift, was impressive, and I wondered if she was an amateur playing at being professional.

There were rules on the track, and drifting wasn’t allowed.

As the car rounded the final bend, I noticed a slight wobble in the rear end, a subtle loss of control that she quickly corrected. It was a minor flaw, but one that would cost her the race. I made a mental note to inquire about the car’s suspension and tire pressure. The smallest details could be the difference between victory and defeat.

My eyes remained fixed on the track, anticipating her next lap.

She was good, but there was room for improvement.

As she crossed the start line again, her determination was palpable, even from where I stood. This time, her technique seemed sharper, her movements more deliberate. The car hugged the curves of the track with a renewed sense of precision,and the earlier wobble was nowhere to be seen. She had adjusted—even recalibrated—but the question lingered in my mind: was it instinct or strategy?

I leaned forward, gripping the fence now, my pulse quickening with the rhythm of the race. The roar of the engine echoed against the concrete walls, drowning out everything around me. This was more than just a practice run. This was a demonstration of skill, grit, and the silent communication between driver and machine. What secrets did the car hold, and how much of her performance relied on its engineering versus her own mastery?

The hairpin turn approached once more. She entered it with calculated velocity, almost teasing the boundaries of control. My breath hitched as the tires squealed slightly against the asphalt, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though time suspended itself. When the car emerged unscathed, with a flawless realignment, a ripple of admiration coursed through me.

---