CHAPTER 2:
REBEL GIRL
Tonight, the Los Angeles produce market is something amazing.
Technically, it is simply an alley between two buildings in an industrial area. A long strip of tarmacadam, exactly the same as anywhere in L.A., America, the world. Technically.
But not tonight.
Tonight it is a pit lane, showroom and club all in one. On both side of this long alley sit cars of various brands, drivers of various cultures.
Toyota, Nissan, Subaru.
Caucasian, African-American, Latino, Asian.
Male and female.
A rainbow of cars line the alley. Some are just plain paintwork, some with decals, others with brand names proudly displaying the parts that make up their cars. Stereo systems play the most eclectic mix of music you will ever hear; rock, hip-hop, funk, soul, punk, techno, drum 'n bass. Some extra bass is added in by the roaring of engines, or tools buzzing as drivers do some last-minute souping up.
Gasoline, burnt rubber, exhaust fumes, pollution, perfume, dust and dirt; it's all distilled into a cloud, packed with adrenaline, floating along and infecting each driver with its energy. People talk loudly, cheer at the arrival of friends, brag and gloat about their cars.
Most cars sit with their hoods up, with drivers boasting about different high-performance, high-cost engine parts, chrome and steel. A minority keep their engines covered; they either have nothing to show or nothing to prove. At least not until they race.
Racers polish their cars obsessively, everything from windows and lights, to engine parts and exhausts. To tell the truth, the cars would definitely go much faster if the drivers removed 'unnecessary' weight such as windows and valances, but who wants to be racing in a shell of a car? And anyway, it's good enough to beat someone on the track, but it's even better to do it in a sub-compact that your mother would own, albeit with upgrades.
The drivers themselves are just as diverse as the cars. It is impossible to count just how many are here. Hundreds, thousands. No gang wars, no racism, shootings or beatings; this is only about cars. This is only about being the fastest.
The guys wear jeans and T-shirts, basketball vests and shorts, no dress code like a club here.
The women on the other hand, are almost as spectacular as the cars, if not more so. Hispanic girls wearing hotpants and bikinis, mini-skirts and tight dresses. Asian-American girls wearing schoolgirl outfits, sport blue hair or dress like Manga characters. Just like the men, every woman is trying to outdo each other here, only they do it off the track as well as on.
Welcome to the best time of your life, 52 weekends a year.
Somewhere in the middle of all of this, a man from out of town steps out of a dirty black Supra that has flames down the sides. Usually when he goes to these meetings, Matt Reilly is usually grinning from ear to ear. After all, what better place is there for making money, seeing friends, meeting women and checking out cars? Why wouldn't a guy smile?
But he's not smiling tonight.
It is more than the fact that he is a stranger in town, it's that he is determined. He is quietly searching for someone, and he will find what he's looking for, he knows it. He'll find him. He promised himself that he would. He swore that he would.
Matt looked up and down the alley, taking in the sights all around him. It was strangely familiar and reassuring, a duplicate of meets all over the country. It was the urban equivalent of a fraternity or a club, only without elite requirements. You don't have to be a racer to be part of the street racing scene; mechanics, stylers, computer techs, DJ's, announcers, boyfriends, girlfriends, friends, spectators, they're all involved. The racers may be the star attraction, but take out any group and you kill the scene.
"No point looking for women what you're driving around in something like that," came a deep voice from beside him, snapping Matt out of his thoughts.
"What?" asked Matt, turning away from the crowd.
"I said, there's no point scoping for honeys when your car is inch-thick with crap." He was leaning back against a dark blue, wide-arched Nissan Skyline GTR; a short black man with a shaved head, wearing an L.A Lakers basketball vest and shorts, smiling his ass off with a dazzling set of teeth. He was muscular, incredibly handsome and had eyes that could make women smoulder with a glance.
"I'm not looking for chicks," said Matt absently. "Know where I can find Sean Westwood?"
The shorter man stood up straight. "Woah, woah, woah. I was only messing with you, bud, but I'm serious when I say don't try and take on Westwood. I seen too many guys think they could take him and end up losing their cars over it. It ain't worth it."
"So everyone keeps telling me."
"An' I'm telling you again."
Matt frowned. "You tell everyone you meet what to do?"
"Yeah, when they're out of their depth and got no idea what they're getting into. Now I ain't saying you're a bad racer, but the fact that you're straight in here and asking about Westwood shows you don't know this game. You look like you can take care of yourself, but I've seen way too many guys come up here all fire in their chests and dollar signs in their eyes thinking they're the new top dog, and they're creamed ten seconds later. No money, no car, and the awkward talk with pops about where his brand new Acura is." He held a hand up. "Most don't listen to me, go right ahead anyway, so you can ignore good advice if you want, but I know how this ends."
No offence, man, Matt thought, But you don't even know how this started.
Matt went to reply, but was suddenly struck with thoughts of back home, back at late night meets where he'd taken it upon himself to speak to the occasional new kid, tell him not to race that guy, not to hit on this girl, not to place a bet with the skinny Russian dude in the corner under any circumstances. Not his business to look after these kids, but he'd done it anyway.
And this was no different, only as far as everyone in L.A. was concerned, he was the greenhorn. He'd been so hyped and focused since he'd taken off on this plan, ever since he'd stepped out of the door back home at top speed with his mind dead set, that he hadn't considered anyone would actually look out for him. It wasn't a feeling he'd been used to recently.
He felt his shoulders sink a little out of shame. This guy - this complete stranger - was just looking to help him out, and Matt had snapped back at him like a bratty kid. He nodded contritely. "Thanks, man, I appreciate that. But don't take this the wrong way, I'm still racing him. If that's okay with you?" he added with a smile.
"Hey, I would love to see someone beat that asshole, but you ain't gonna do it, specially not with a half-ton of dirt holding you back."
Matt glanced at the car; true, it was caked in dirt, but he wasn't here for appearances. He was just here to do what he came for and leave. "Why do you have such a boner for my car?"
The black man smiled broadly. "Your car? I don't pop no boner over anything 'cept for this baby here." He swept his arm over the Skyline's chassis. Various decals covered the bodywork, hinting at what was under the hood; Sparco, Versus, Panasonic, Nitrous Express, Castrol Oil, Bridgestone Tyres, and a Nismo decal on the large rectangular spoiler. "Well, this and Eva Longoria maybe. They call me Kobe." he said.
"That 'cause you like the Lakers?"
"No, it's just my name, baby" he laughed. "And as I'm such a nice guy and all, I feel responsible for guiding a newbie like you around."
"So what makes you think I'm a new guy?"
"Number one, I know everyone and everything here. You need something, need to find someone, I'm your man. And number two, no drivers turn up here with their car looking that bad. In L.A., it's all about the appearance, baby. This is the land of Hollywood and glamour 24/7."
"I thought it was about being the best."
"Well, what I say is if you can't be the best, look the best." Kobe shook his left wrist, rattling an extremely expensive-looking platinum bracelet. "Of course, I'm not too bad a racer, if I may say so myself," he grinned.
"So if you know everything, you'll know where Sean Westwood is now, huh?"
Kobe shook his head. "You just don't listen, do you?"
"Not to anyone. My name's Matt Reilly."
"Pleasure," he grinned. "And as you seem to have a death wish, Westwood ain't here just yet. I ain't gonna try and stop you no more 'cause I suppose you're big enough and dumb enough to think you know what you're doing."
Matt broke out a wide smile. "Gee, thanks mom."
"So, if you don't mind me asking, what makes you want to race Westwood so bad? See, we get punks turning up every week thinking they're good enough to beat him and end up walking home. So whatcha' after? Money, fame, groupies? We all got motivations, son."
Matt shifted uncomfortably. "I uh...just the money, I guess. And a challenge, got bored back home."
"Well if you ever want a real challenge, give me a call for a race."
Matt smiled. "Thanks."
"Hey, not a problem. Just promise that if you win, you'll spend some money on cleaning your..."
"Jesus!" he laughed. That was another stange sensation, he hadn't had much at all to laugh about for a while. Despite the reason he was out here - the real reason - it was still a million miles from his usual life, which was good enough for him to crack a smile and a joke without having to worry about who was lurking over his shoulder. "Enough about the car already! I'll clean it when I get the chance."
"Just saying, just saying. Looks like you drove through the desert to get here, you live out that way?"
"Maybe a bit further."
"What, you some Midwest farm boy, trade in your John Deere tractor for some real wheels?"
"Not quite, though my ass was welded to the seat by the time I got to Kansas."
"Well you ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto, welcome to L.A. You really drove all this way to take on Westwood? You must think you got a damn fine car."
A sly grin. "She's good."
"Oh this I gotta see, mind if I pop the hood and have a little look? Just might be able to get the inside knowledge if I'm gonna make a little wager, know what I'm saying?"
There was always money to be made - and lost - from racing, and Matt knew this as well as anyone. His instinct told him to be wary, told him to keep everyone at arm's length here, but he relented. He held himself as a pretty decent judge of character, and hell, if it made him feel a little better for how he'd initially reacted to Kobe, that wouldn't hurt either.
"No pressure on me to win tonight if your rent's riding on it," he said, gesturing to the door for Kobe.
"Well, baby, a guy who drives the length of the country either has a damn good reason for racing or a damn good car." Kobe reached into the Supra and popped the hood release, but paused while backing out. "Matt, do you know there's enough NOS in the back of your car to power a battleship?" He pointed to the two large pressurised tanks of nitrous oxide that sat in a metal cradle between and behind the front seats.
A shrug. "I like going fast."
"Fast? Those tanks goes up and you'll end up in front of God fast."
Kobe opened the hood and whistled at what lay before him. "Not bad, not bad at all, baby. But I ain't a tech, so we need specialist knowledge." He looked around for a second and caught sight of a bunch of hip hop boys and girls breaking to some early old-school Run DMC. He smiled when he found who he was looking for. "Hey Dex! Dex, come take a look at this."
A tall guy in his late teens turned from the crowd and skated over on a pair of rollerblades, dodging in and out of racers and cars with casual ease. His hair was out in messy spikes, his clothes were baggy jeans and a loose shirt. He powered up to Kobe and pulled an inch-perfect stop right in front of the engine block.
"You still thinking you can dance, son? Long time no see, Dex," said Kobe, jackhammering fists. "Heard you were gonna be around tonight."
"Yeah, just got back from college this morning." Dex smiled in a huge white grin. "This yours?"
"Nah, belongs to a buddy of mine." He gestured to Matt. "Dex Miller, meet Matt Reilly. Dex is the resident super-brain around here. Got himself a genius-level I.Q., Goddamn photographic memory and everything."
Dex shrugged sheepishly.
They shook hands, before Dex stuck his nose into the engine block. "Stand-alone fuel management system, top range gear train set for bad-boy acceleration, looks like a straight six cylinder with, ooh, twin GReddy T-78 turbos, full computer monitoring, dual-stage nitrous feed, whole lot of customised stuff I ain't ever seen before...shit, Kobe, you better not be racing this guy."
Kobe snorted a quick laugh. "You saying he can beat my girl?"
"I'm saying he's your girl's daddy. This beast's running 650bhp, easy."
"Yeah, well at least my car's clean." Kobe retorted with a half-smile.
It brought a slim measure of relief to Matt. But as he knew, as he'd seen with his own eyes, how a car was set up was sometimes wy different to how it fared in a race.
"Shit, I gotta bail, I got a date I need to keep," said Dex, looking at his wristwatch. "Good to meet you, Matt. See you guys later?"
"Mine for a beer," Kobe said.
"It's on. Later!" And with that, Dex skated off into the crowd, disappearing into the masses.
"Well, son, just cause you got good upgrades, that don't mean you can just go out there and kick Westwood's ass. I mean, you got a good car, but you even driven before? You ever even won a race?" He looked Matt up and down, who was leaning back against his Supra, staring off into the distance. "Yo, newbie, you listening to me?"
He wasn't.
He couldn't take his eyes off her.
She stood alone, leaning against a white Mazda RX-7, coolly taking in everything around her, showing no emotion or particular concern in anything or anyone. There was nothing special in what she wore; baggy black jeans and white sleeveless top, but she still oozed sex appeal. A gorgeous face with full lips was made even better with the help of two big glacial-blue eyes that scanned the alley. But her most striking feature was her hair; pure ice white and hanging softly past her shoulders.
In a sea of beautiful women and amazing cars, standing out like this is a big achievement.
"Okay, Mr 'I know everything about this place', who is she?" asked Matt, not taking his eyes off her. She hadn't noticed him yet, or at least hadn't let on that she had noticed him.
"Winter Frost." said Kobe.
"What?" Matt said, laughing a little. He turned to face Kobe. "She's called what? Is she named after a superhero or something?"
"Her name's Winter Frost, name comes from her crazy hippie parents. And unless you like hospitals you better not laugh at her name. Last guy to do that can't eat solid foods no more."
"Winter Frost..." he let out a long breath.
Kobe landed a hand on Matt's shoulder. "Listen, she ain't some airhead, and I've seen a million guys try to hit her up and she just knocks their asses back down hard. They don't call her Nuclear Winter for nothing."
Before Matt could ask any further she moved, walking away from the Mazda, clutching her cell phone to her ear.
Get a grip, Reilly, he thought suddenly as he watched her go, a mix of guilt and anger in his stomach. This ain't singles night and she ain't who you're here to find, so get the Goddamn job done.
A chill ran down his spine.
Get the Goddamn job done.
He had thought it.
He had thought that.
He panicked for a second, feeling his heart race before he forced himself to relax, his breathing to calm. He felt himself walking forward, walking away from his Supra and Kobe.
No...No, it doesn't mean...
"Hey asshole!"
It snapped him out of his thoughts and immediately into action, as threats tended to do.
"Yeah, asshole, I'm talking to you!"
Matt looked up, a ripped beefcake in a tight T-shirt was walking right towards him, a vacant-looking airhead clattering along behind him in heels that were too high and clothes that were too small. Chad. The guy's name was Chad. It would be a hilarious cliche to Matt if Chad wasn't currently storming towards him with a pissed-off look on his face. Before Hector Hernandez, Matt had questioned his way around the L.A. racer scene looking for information, stopping at aftermarket parts stores, jumping on net forums, and hitting up bars. Some had helped and offered advice, some had ignored him, others...well others had been a bit more pissed that this strangers was asking questions. Others like Chad.
"I thought I told you not to come around here," Chad snarled, pointing a finger at Matt as he came to an abrupt halt in front of him. "You all up in my face, asking questions."
"Listen, pal, nobody wants any trouble, we're all here for some racing and a good time, right?" Matt looked back, realising he'd walked further than he thought, now closer to the white Mazda RX-7. He gave a small node to Kobe, who stood with an expression that was a mix of half concern, half amusement.
"I told you not to come around here," Chad repeated.
"Yeah, you might have dropped that in before, chucklehead." He spat the final word, feeling his patience rapidly running out.
"I don't like you asking questions. What, are you some kind of under..."
"Yeah, yeah, undercover cop. I get that a lot out here. I'm part of the anti-moron task force."
Chad reeled back, pulling his right arm up and back in an exaggerated move, clearly signposting he was aiming a thunderbolt of a punch at Matt's face. The guy way big, no doubt about it, and athletic enough too, enough to let Matt know he wasn't just a meathead for show, he could move fast when he wanted to. Had probably played high school football, maybe even QB, but not the starter, not with moves that clearlysignposted and obvious to Matt.
The fist came hurtling forward, Matt simply ducked the wild haymaker, hitting back with a sharp jab to Chad's exposed underarm. The blow took him by surprise, his body shifting to the right as he instinctively sought to protect the area. Matt used this momentum, grabbing Chad's collar and pitching him down and forward. Chad's head thunked off the Mazda, dazing him just enough for Matt to pin a knee in his back, forcing him to the warm tarmac. He grabbed Chad's right arm and forced it behind his back, leaned in to whisper in the guy's ear, "Listen, this is over, okay? Otherwise I snap your wrist and every time you shift gear for six months it'll hurt like hell."
Chad nodded, the fight out of him. Matt got to his feet quickly, ready to react in case Chad tried something, but the big guy rose a little unsteady.
But he was the least of Matt's worries.
"What the frigging hell do you think you're doing?"
Matt looked up to see Winter Frost standing back at the car - her car as it would seem - and staring hard. Unhappy was not the word.
The driving drum beat of Bikini Kill's Rebel Girl rang strongly from the Mazda's ICE system, Kathleen Hannah's vocals screaming out;
"That girl thinks she's the queen of the neighborhood,
I got news for you, she is!"
Not a good sign, thought Matt.
Winter went to the Mazda, quickly checked for damage before turning on Chad. "You ever get sick of throwing punches, idiot?"
A finger pointed at Matt. "He was..."
"Assmunch, I don't care if he was mugging the Easter Bunny and Jeebus, you don't start a fight near my car." She prodded a finger into Chad's chest. "That paintjob's worth more than your girlfriend's fake cans. Looks a helluva lot better too."
Chad's girl tottered over on her stripper heels. "Listen, bitch..."
"Honey, don't waste your precious limited brainpower on trying to deny it. You got more silcone in there than I do in my engine hoses."
She scowled at Winter for a long couple of seconds before finally settling on her knockout comeback. "Dyke," she hissed.
"Oh, my gawwwd. That is like, sooo funny!" Winter grinned in a put-on dumb Valley girl accent before her voice went back to normal. "Seriously, making comments about my sexuality, is that...is that really the best you can do?"
The girl frowned in confusion. "Bitch."
"Damn straight," Winter winked. "And don't you forget it."
The girl spun, walking off with a visibly chastised Chad, as Winter turned to Matt. "And you, idiot..."
His eyebrows shot up. "What the hell did I do?"
"You threw that piece of shit into my car!"
"I threw that piece of shit down, your car just got in the way." He finished with a lopsided grin.
It had no effect.
"You're lucky there's no dings in the paintwork, otherwise you be patching it up with broken fingers." She brushed a long strand of white hair out of her eyes.
He rolled his eyes. Distraction after distraction, and all he wanted to do was find Sean Westwood. "What, your boyfriend's gonna kick my ass?"
"Boyfriend?" she snapped.
"Fine, girlfriend then..."
"More like me, dumbass!" she scowled. "Although kudos for recognising non-traditional sexual relationships..."
Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. "Christ, I wish someone had told me about you instead of Westwood..."
Winter's head snapped up. "What?"
"Nothing, I just..."
"So you're him. You're the guy going round town asking about Westwood."
Matt realised that Winter was looking at him with an expression he hadn't seen out here yet. In everyone he'd asked, they'd all looked at him with bored resignation, or amusement, or outright hostility. But Winter was looking at him with curiosity.
"Why?" she asked, all trace of aggression suddenly gone, a faint smile instead.
"Why what?"
"Why him, why Westwood? Every other dreamer I've heard of coming through here says they want to be the best. You want to beat Westwood."
"Won't that make me the best anyway?" he said, maybe a little too sharply. He felt the hackles rise despite himself.
Her smile grew a little "Not with me around." Her eyes narrowed, "What are you really..."
"Listen, I don't know you, and it's none of your business what I'm here for," he snapped, emotions overriding his better judgement, and not for the first time.
Winter folded her hands on her hips, the smile clean off her face. "Yeah, you're right, you don't know me. But I know assholes like you, seen guys like you come through here every weekend."
Matt laughed sourly. "Guys like me?"
She nodded. "Yeah, you're all the same. Import paid for by daddy's credit cards, stick a tank of NOS in and you think you're a racer."
"Not even close." It had struck a nerve, picked at a scab deep in his psyche, and he couldn't stop himself from lashing back. "On second thoughts I should have thrown that idiot into your car harder, or even better, shown you how to drive."
"What?" Her voice dripped with venom. "You think this is some kind of Barbie car? You think I'm just here to show off my cleavage and pout for the guys?"
"So what, your tits are just on show by accident?" he asked, pointing to her vest.
"Yeah, like I got to justify how I dress to the King of Morons," she replied icily. "And believe me, if my tits were on show, every guy here would be drooling."
"Woo yeah!" came an anonymous cry from within the crowd.
"Well you can be very proud of that," Matt said, "I'll stick to racing."
"You? Racing? I could run your skinny ass right off the road if I wanted."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Not much of a challenge to beat guys like you, but I'll do it anyway as a warning to other misogynistic pricks. Oops, sorry, am I using too many big words? Who cares? In fact, I don't even know why I'm wasting my time speaking to you. Go see if some airhead is impressed with you being such a hardcore racer," she mocked.
Matt's ears flared. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. And if I wasn't too busy tonight, I'd show you how to race," he retorted.
She laughed a little at the absurdity of this claim. "So what's keeping you from getting your ass kicked by me tonight? Got a meeting at Chauvinist Assholes Anonymous?" Winter's eyes narrowed as she put all the pieces together. "You son of a... You think you're racing Westwood tonight, don't you? You've been asking over town for him, and that's why you're here."
Although he'd never admit it, Matt was impressed.
"Join the line, pal, I've got a shot at him first," she said, jabbing a finger into his chest. "You think you can just waltz on in here and be the best? Try going through me."
Matt looked down at the finger still prodding him, then looked her directly in the eyes. "Anytime."
Around the two of them, the air was full of tension. People stood watching, momentarily ignoring their machines for the sake of this soap opera.
"Ah, the warrior's spirit." It broke the silence, ringing out and attracting everyone's attention. "The warrior's spirit defines him, transcends his physical form. I do love to see it in others, no matter how slight, but what I love more is when the battle is over me."
Matt turned, ready to snap at whoever had decided it was the right time for a downright ludicrous sermon, but as he did, a wave of bile rushed up his throat. Staring right at him, coldly and inquisitively through a pair of Gucci sunglasses, was Sean Westwood. His handsome - no, pretty - face was crowned with immaculately groomed short brown hair and he carried the faint scent of $500 Armani cologne.
Sean Westwood, King of L.A.'s streets, and the man Matt had been looking for, was now a matter of inches from him. Behind Westwood was an entourage of over a dozen people, made up of scantily-clad girls and hulking brutes, the latter clearly there as bodyguards as Hector had explained.
Matt eagerly scanned the crowd...but no, nothing. He forced his hands out of the fists they had instinctively formed, while trying to think of something to say. A mixture of emotions shot through him, making him want to lash out explosively, scream or lapse into shock. He had driven all the way across the country, planning what he was going to say when the moment came, and now he couldn't think of a single thing. He didn't have to.
"I hear you've been asking questions about me, am I right?" Westwood's voice was educated; calm, clear and crisp. "Well, have you?"
"Yeah, Sean," growled one of the bouncers behind Westwood, "That's him. He's come in from out of town and been asking everybody with a car about you. Seems he wants to race you real bad."
"You came here just for me?" asked Westwood, raising his hands in mock surprise, "Good for me!" he sneered, his mouth curling up at the side.
The alley had fallen completely silent and the crowd around them was growing by the second; it seemed like everyone wanted to know what Westwood was saying.
"Well, can you even speak, boy?"
Matt felt his fists ball at the last word.
"Well Goddamn," Westwood said, grandstanding to the crowd, "He talks to everyone in town about me, then he's struck dumb at the very sight of me! I mean, I am gorgeous, but I've blown his freaking mind!"
The crowd laughed a little, Westwood's entourage a little louder than the rest.
"I was wondering if you can drive as well as you talk," Matt mumbled, the words tripping over his tongue. "I wanted to see if you were as good as they say." He didn't know where the words had come from, but he was glad that they had.
Westwood stared for a moment, cold and hard, before laughing loudly. "Good as they say?" He turned to his entourage standing behind him, "Good as they say?" They all laughed along with the joke, right on cue. "I'll tell you this for free, kid," he said, facing Matt again, "I'm even better than they say."
More laughter.
Matt swallowed, the bile sinking, his mind rebooting. This was what he wanted, this was why he was here.
Man up, Reilly. He'd been told it enough times, drilled into him so often that he'd lost count. Be a man.
He pulled himself up to his full height, the shock and surprise now wearing off. His eyes refocused, his jaw set firm. The two young men now faced each other, like a pair of gunslingers in an old western movie.
"Prove it."
The laughter stopped.
Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw a faint smile spread over Winter's lips. It couldn't be for him, could it?
"Listen you little..." One of the bulls over Westwood's shoulder made a grab for Matt, but was stopped by Westwood, who was now giving Matt a polar stare.
"Like I even have to prove it to you," said Westwood with a look of contempt. "Okay, this is what's going to happen; I'll race someone tonight, one on one, but first there'll be a heat to see who it is. No point running against someone I'll beat easily." He chuckled softly. "Oh wait, I'll do that anyway. Mystery man."
"Matt."
"Matt, eh?" Westwood pondered this for a second. "You're in, Matt. Bring your girlfriend as well," he said, pointing at Winter, "She's wanted a shot at me for a while, though I can't blame her." He smiled at Winter, making her roll her eyes. "Although we know what she really wants to do with me."
Winter popped the door of her RX-7 and climbed inside without saying a word.
Westwood turned to his group. "Find Ding Alvarez and Zack Grey. It's about time I reminded everyone who rules these streets."