"Palmont City - 10 miles". The beams of my headlights encompassed the sign before passing it by completely. The reverb of the exhaust sent shockwaves through brisk high-atmospheric air and left whirlwinds behind me.

The one area on the map of the U.S I had been thoroughly avoiding for as long as I could. Stretching out my racing prowess to Olympic City, Bayview County, then to Rockport. My patience was wearing thin on the run from Rockport PD on whether or not to explore other areas or return home to make amends and repay my debts from the past. Palmont was my first home. Home to my friends, family. I left so much behind, so many loose ends not tied. And one female partner who I promised to always be there for. Home to much more than just a past life.

And home to that oh so fateful night 3 years prior. The damned night that sent me empty handed out of town.

All it took was the setting of the sun and the start of a race for my whole world to come crashing down.


"Start it up"

She leaned into the window of the driver's side letting her bangs fly freely, bearing the innocent smile of a schoolgirl. It was a passion we shared, loving to work under the hood whenever possible. Since the beginning of high school we found each other casting side glances when we thought the other wasn't looking. I always turned out to choke on making my move, and she knew it too. It took some time, but the tables turned and she asked me, not the other way around for a shot at a first date; now how can a guy say no to that? Escaping the friendzone would be a feat in it of itself for all the teenagers today.

Once I depressed the clutch pedal, turned the key, and held…...nothing. With an exasperated sigh, and dread, I tried again. I turned the key with as much force as I could muster, and gave it a bit of throttle. It had spark, but fuel wasn't being delivered through the lines. In haste, I planted my foot on the accelerator firmly, watching the tachometer needle skyrocket to redline. The 2JZGTE rumbled to life, peaking the 7,200 RPM redline to make sure it wouldn't stall on idle. She wiped the sweat from her brow as did I, relieved that after the strenuous work and time put into the project, it's able to greet the pavement. I slammed the hood shut and got her to join me in the car. Harnesses locked and shifter locked into 1st gear, it was time to go greet the client. A solid black '11' was all that was left of our shared presence. A parting gift to the sleet-like garage floor that aided our project.

I pulled the clients car up the narrow and pot-holed massed stretch of road into an abandoned lot. Stepping out onto the rugged and coarse concrete greeted me with wind chill and temperature spikes in the negatives I wasn't expecting. I tossed him the keys to his car, communicating the job was done and payment was due. He tossed me the keys right back, as a return favor I hadn't imagined he'd jump for.

"Don't disappoint", was all he told me.

The air was frigid, my breath coming out in cold, visible wisps floating aimlessly through the surrounding space. My hands were shaking furiously, part due to my excitement and impending hypothermia. I managed to catch the cold piece of metal reserved for the inline 6 beast to my direct right; an A80 Toyota Supra. While not my own ride, I was evidently on a list of trustworthy candidates to drive it. After all, I did build it. Anxiety paired with the cold air striking my exposed skin wasn't setting my nerves into a calming state, nor was the destination and job I had panned out.

He had enough trust in me to run for him in the battle between the 4 major players through all 4 areas. As the Leader of the Stacked Deck crew, with me behind the wheel he had everything to lose. All the work me and her had put in to the car for him to race, now had the pressure resting solely on my shoulders. I couldn't possibly let them down. He had friends in high places, and I prefered to remain in my lane, away from prying eyes and police sirens. Unfortunately, that was going to have to change for one night, seeing as how the entire racing scene is one big gambling den, and he was betting all his chips on my win. Attention was expected, but it wasn't welcome.

Focusing on the race start. On the line walked a flag girl in sync with the rhythm of the British and American V8's, the Japanese Rotary, and the beast of a Japanese inline 6 that I had was positioned behind. That flag girl was my girl. She was mesmerizing, Effortlessly sauntering out to face 4 deadly machines head on, not even a sweat-drop of the brow or a stutter in her sashay.

21st Street ruled the muscle scene, TFK guided the exotics, and Bushido shredded the tires on tuner culture. 3 different drivers from each of the 3 different crews came from different parts of the city. Each coming together to race for the keys to the entire city. Whomever reigned triumphant, ruled over every rice burner or seasoned professional who roamed the streets in need of a race. This was a big deal. Territory is wealth in Carbon County, and nobody can get enough. The industrial yard marked as the starting line saw spectators lined up and down the drive, eagerly awaiting the flag to drop, tires to spin, and traction to be found so the race could begin. Slipping under the radar was a sting operation led by an unknown caller. Of course during this time I was oblivious to it all, my nerves shutting down in the moment . To my chagrin, I noticed the atmosphere was tense. Sure the stakes were high, but I had an underlying gut feeling the outcome of this race wasn't going to be pretty. I shook off the intruding thought and focused on my destination; this very spot 3 laps from now.

I roll up in the 4th and final position, racing for him, for Stacked Deck, for Silverton. Pressure was high, stakes were higher, and my focus was dead-centered on the double yellow lines in front as I mentally prepare for what could be my big break. For me and her. After all I've worked towards to be honored behind the wheel of my mentor, the one who found me in my area of need. After my stint in engine mechanics, he bred me to be the best, and I was more than that.

It wasn't until later I had realized just how much of a threat I was, and for the wrong reasons as well. I thought I had it all figured out, and boy was I misled drastically. That's a story for another day.

Shaken out of my trance in thinking about the future this race could hold, was a British, an American, and a Japanese tune firing its way out the tailpipes of their respective Aston Martin DB9, Dodge Charger R/T, and Mazda RX-7. She stood in direct center of the 2 lane backstreet, poised with the bag in hand, reminding those behind the wheel just how high the stakes really were. That if you treat this as a game, you're going home empty handed. As she lifted it above her waist and held it firm next to her temple, I shifted the mighty Supra into 1st and built up my RPM's, being the last motor to emit reverb from my exhaust. I held, and held, anxious to launch off the line and rocket towards the first corner. I could sense the transmission heating up beneath me as I staged the car for what felt like forever.

The moment she made eye contact with me, was the same moment she dropped the bag and the race began. I let off the clutch pedal and grabbed wheelspin off the starting line, a thin cloud of tire smoke emanating from behind my car. Brake boosting and building my PSI meant my launch was explosive, and rocketed away from the intangible starting block. Everyone's launch was similar in velocity, but the DB9 and the Charger pulled into first and second from the low end torque they carried, while I held third in the Supra keeping the RX-7 in my rearview.

Corner 2 came up abruptly, and I transferred the weight of the vehicle to the left to countersteer the same way. In my peripheral, I saw the DB9 cut the corner wide into oncoming traffic, a giant Semi truck running through his line directly. With no other option, he backed off the throttle, slammed on the brakes and ripped his handbrake in order to prevent collision. Now I held second place and the modern Aston Martin found himself dead last. On the straightaway, he was dodging oncoming traffic trying to swerve by; however he handicapped himself, the constant movement and loss of balance never allowed him a straight shot at an overtake. Balance increases traction. This cat and mouse action continued on until the next corner showed itself. Approaching a sharp right, I downshifted into 2nd gear, heel-and-toe action caused the gauge needle to graze redline on the tachometer, limiter being met on a constant as I drift through the corner. Modulating the throttle I maintained a consistent and fluent line grabbing 1st place. Of course that didn't last long at all. Milliseconds of first position came and went like a light.

The RX-7 applied his brakes later, and because of his rotary's peppy high redline and low center of gravity, he was able to make it work. He slipped by on the outside line and flew ahead, narrowly navigating his line onto the sidewalk, and inches away from the bridge's walls. The Charger behind him on the contrary ran the corner wide, but instead of flying ahead, she flew into the barrier, her right rear quarter panel making contact first, then scraping her front end ever so slightly on her botched exit. This was due in part to her not taking into account just how girthy the dimensions of the American classic were. I glanced in my right-side-view just as her ass end jumped the remainder of the curb and picked up speed.

All four of us were coming up on the final stretch of asphalt between our current lap, and the finish line. I held the lead, making sure I keep all 3 opponents within the confines of my side and rear view mirrors. Reaching redline in 4th gear, I quickly shift into 5th and surge ahead slightly. Seeing my speedometer at 130 and climbing, at 5,000 RPM I had room for one shot of NOS. Activating the bottle and arming my spray, I flipped the switch and found wheelspin in overdrive, tires spinning and smoking in the wake of the extra shot of horsepower. It was at least 160 on the speedo as I came down to the final 100m. I was going to win, all the work had finally paid off, and in more ways than one. I initiated a momentum-propelled drift and rounded the final 90 degree corner as the finish line graced my eyesight.

Of course, that would just be too easy. Victory was short lived, and a long term mistake.

The instant my front end crossed the finish line, The DB9, the Charger, and the RX-7 had their vehicles hit by police EMP's seemingly out of the shadows. Of course I had no idea at first, but upon hearing sirens, I flipped the back end around and saw the aftermath. Handcuffs given to my 3 opponents, One with curly hair and a long silver flowing trench coat. Beside him was a woman with a braided ponytail, a tanktop and sweats adorning her figure. Finally came the Asian-looking man; his blocky sunglasses and tacky green vest were the last I saw before chaos ensued. Spectators fleeing the scene, A helicopter above circling the area, providing aerial support to the ground units who intercepted the race. I went into a state of panic, all of these interceptions and busts filling me up with dread. I paused and hyperventilated in the heat of the moment, since no cop was pursuing me inside the car yet.

It was all too much. Too fast. Not enough time to recuperate.

I spotted her again, this time at the edge of the sidewalk, fear evident in those glassy wide eyes of hers. I couldn't blame her, I'm probably in a worse state of fear than she is. On instinct, slamming my shifter into 1st gear, I drove up to her and ripped the handbrake beside her. I quickly rolled down the window and unlocked the door so she could hop in. She tossed me the red bag with the winnings. Next thing I know I see her lose her footing and a pudgy cop grabs her from behind and drags her down and they both collide with the cold, gritty asphalt. I was about to help her up, but I heard her faint "GO" behind me. I found first gear and spun my tires around, looking for an escape route. My rear end was caught in an endless fishtail as I scanned the immediate area for an escape route. After my tires had seen enough abuse, the heat from the immense friction now radiating into the cockpit made me sweat. A silver Chrysler 300 moved from his spot blocking an alleyway from the yard to the interstate. That was my out. I had no hesitation present, and gunned it through the spot, unaware he moved back to block the area as soon as I took his bait. I burst through the metal security gate and merged onto the freeway out of the city and towards the position of the first route out of town. After all, the heat wouldn't chase after me forever, just chill out at a safe house and wait for it to blow over.

Completely forgetting about the bag, I was eager to at least take a look at my winnings. I could bail her out of jail, set money aside for a future, buy a car, etc. Everything had a plan. My face fell and the rhythm of my heartbeat came to an abrupt halt as I scanned what exactly I had won.

Newspaper clippings. Not a single Benjamin in here.

I hung my head down, trying to figure out how it could've came to be, what would've went wrong. Of course Lady Luck hadn't had enough misfortune out of me, she decided my punishment thus far wasn't as she saw fit. So it changed. On instant, HE called. I picked up the phone and he wasn't angry or disappointed. If anything, his tone and attitude seemed indifferent, like keeping a level head throughout the entire playthrough. He finished off with….

"Look, between the heat and the crews you NEED to walk away. Take my car go, get outta here!"

Part of me wanted so badly to disobey him. Just to stay and prove he was over-reacting. I couldn't leave her, and if I HAD too, I couldn't contact her. No matter the reason, I heard sirens and the black and whites were faintly popping up about ¾ of a mile behind me. So for the first time I did something I would in the future regret deeply. A part of history I can no longer create or change.

I left. Slamming the case of my phone shut and tossing it on the seat, I weighed my options. There was only one. Not looking back. Downshifting into 3rd gear and mashing the throttle I made my way towards the county line. The beginning of a new chapter had begun, leaving my current one unfinished and blank as I hit 120 on the speedo. My new home away from home didn't seem so inviting given the circumstances.


Returning back to reality I found myself shaken out of a trance, not noticing I've travelled considerably further down the canyon stretch, and not done by my own conscience. My internal autopilot must have guided me this far. Glimpses and flashes of that night 3 years ago kept bringing HER face to the front of my mind. I missed her affection; the way she always greeted me through the garage door's back entrance. HIS guidance, his mellow and tranquilizing instruction. The thrill of flying down the abandoned industrial lots practicing my lines and driving techniques. It all flooded my mind with a haze I couldn't seem to get rid of. The past can't be rewritten, nor can it be replayed. All I had now was the regret I didn't do anything different weighing my mood down. Apertures in each of the guard rail sections served as a passage for old memories to come flying in.

Through to the end of my somber internal photo album of memories that kept bothering me, and passing through a series of S-curves and wicked tight chicanes, I heard the distinct growl of a throaty V8 on my tail end. The kind of sound only a 7.0L LS7 would make. At first I figured it was a late night racer out to attack the corners and times. I slowed down and took the outside line for the next couple of times as I heard the Doppler Effect of the engine increase. I rounded another hairpin, and heard the motor right up on me, thinking he'll finally pass. Glancing in the rearview I was only able to capture the headlights of a car before I got shunted from behind. Almost certain I got minor whiplash from that ordeal, I was hit again, severely pissing me off. I was about to brake check this asshat and settle it fisticuffs on the ground.

With one hand on the wheel, I used my free hand to grab my phone and flip open the casing. One look at the caller ID my face went completely ghost-like. My heartrate slowed considerably as my head pounded. All the memories of the Blacklist, the Jail. The fix.

He was back to finish the job. Rockport couldn't hold back a man with a grudge. That LS7 belonged to a Corvette. One I hoped I wouldn't ever have the privilege to hear or see again. I was hesitant to even look at the screen anymore, but an unconscious and demanding voice in the back of my head ordered me to answer it.

So I did just that.

The voice on the other end made my blood run cold and my face to visibly pale even more than it already was. The vocals from the other end of the phone weren't fueled by anger, rage, and regret. It scared me even more to hear just how monotone and emotionless he sounded. That was just him chuckling. In the time I had left, this man had changed. Disconnected somehow.

It just couldn't be. Even if Palmont and Rockport are connected within the Tri-state, he couldn't come out here without warrant or suspicions, of which at this time I had none of. As far as I knew my rap sheet and lists of infractions remained in Rockport and wouldn't go nationwide Nevertheless, I held the Nokia up to my ear even closer, and those 4 words he uttered made time stand still, solidifying the fact this wasn't a dream, but was real.

"Hey, guess who's back?"