CHAPTER 4:

402.3

Matt hauled the handbrake off and slammed his foot onto the gas, the force of the acceleration pushing him back into the padded Sparko seat. The computer controlled launch control had worked perfectly, giving him a rapid and easy start.

Unfortunately for Matt, it seemed that the three other racers also had it, and it had done the same for them.

The four cars charged off the line in unison, a roar of engines and the stink of burnt rubber. They blasted off as one, hauling past the redhead, the draft blowing the hankerchief out of her hand. Everyone in sight went wild, all except Sean Westwood, who couldn't help but wonder about this guy who was so interested in him, this stranger from out of town. It was probably nothing, just another guy who'd read about him on the net and decided to try their luck against Westwood. Hell, it probably just proved that the whole of the country knew about him. Westwood smiled.

10 metres.

The four cars were in line with each other, only a few millimetres in it so far. Right now, it was impossible to call it, but races aren't won in the first 10 metres, they're won in 402.

Shit, thought Matt. What if I guessed wrong? What if their cars ARE better than mine?

What do I do then except put a gun to Westwood's head and force him to race me?

Pull the trigger?

20 metres.

Distracted by his thoughts, Matt upshifted badly, feeling the gearbox strain and tear. For a split second, the engine sighed and faltered, before giving full power again. Matt groaned, knowing that his doubt had taken his mind off the race and had resulted in that mistake. It hadn't cost him more than two inches in distance, but any more mess-ups like that in this race and he was screwed.

Come on Matt, mind on the job.

His father used to tell him that when he was a kid. 'Mind on the job, Mattie', or 'Keep your eye on the ball, Matt', he was always full of words of encouragement. It saddened and angered Matt to think that he had lost a great father.

Get a grip, Reilly. Don't think about the old man just now.

The pack was beginning to split, with Zack's blue Evo streaking out into the lead, its engine whirring out a high-pitched noise as it was pushed to the very limit.

"Ain't happening," muttered Matt, "Just ain't happening." He stamped his foot on the gas, glancing at the Evo as it increased its lead, now a whole car length in the lead.

He quickly shot a look to his left, seeing that he was still in line with Winter and Ding, give or take an inch.

50 metres.

Not for long, thought Matt, shifting again, smoothly this time. He had expected the Evo to go into the front at the start, but he knew that with a much smaller engine and less horsepower, the Evo wouldn't hold the position for too long.

I hope.

70 metres.

The four cars whipped along like a blastwave, screaming along Jones and its lines of wild spectators in a split-second.

Inside the blue Evo, Zack was zeroed on the finish line ahead of him, his hands so tight around the steering wheel that they were beginning to cramp up. He trembled with excitement, his entire body shaking at the thought of winning. He only took his mind from the race when he saw the sleek figure of a black Toyota Supra creeping up on the far right of his field of vision.

Shocked, he turned to watch the Supra as it drew level with him, then to his left as he was matched by Winter and Ding's cars, all steadily overtaking him with their more powerful engines.

"No!" Zack screamed, panic flooding him. "No, no, no!" He thumped the gas pedal repeatedly, trying in vain to squeeze extra power from the Japanese engine, but in its top gear, the Evo was gone already.

100 metres.

A feeling of relief hit Matt as he stormed past the Evo, his powerful 660bhp turbocharged engine coming into its own in a higher gear. One down, he thought, Two to go.

In his mind's eye, Matt could see the Evo falling away from the pack, and the only thing Zack could do now was to not wreck his engine trying to win a lost race. He had seen racers tear their cars to pieces when it was clear they had no chance of winning, and one thing worse than losing is losing and having a trashed car.

With a shrill beeping sound that startled him, the Supra's palmtop computer announced on its screen that Matt had reached the optimum time for a NOS input. A pre-programmed animation accompanied the audio alarm; a flashing message saying simply; 'BURN IT'.

Almost on reflex, Matt hit a small black button on the steering wheel with his right thumb and held on tightly. From behind him, he heard a short, sharp hiss as a shot of nitrous oxide discharged from the pressurised cylinder and raced down the clear plastic tubing that fed it directly to the engine. The gas entered the combustion engine and was ignited instantly, a shot of raw adrenaline for the vehicle.

3...2...1...

Matt upshifted at the exact point when the NOS hit, a trick he had learned back home for gaining maximum effect from the boost. The Supra surged forward like a jet, throwing Matt against the driver's seat as the car accelerated at a rate the original designers never had in mind. A rapid glimpse at the dash showed Matt the silver needle on the speedometer relentlessly charging past 100mph, almost as quickly as the Toyota tore up the streets of L.A.

150 metres.

Almost at the same time, Winter and Ding engaged their own Nitrous systems, but with very different results.

While Winter's Mazda accelerated as if it had been fired from a cannon, Ding's Civic looked as if it had been hit with a cannon.

Due to a tiny flaw that had gone unchecked, a hole in Ding's NOS line had leaked the gas into the engine compartment instead of injecting it into the engine itself. Once the volatile gas touched the red-hot Honda i-VTEC engine, it ignited explosively, instantly frying a number of key engine parts and killing Ding's race. As a punctuation, the mini-explosion ripped the cover from the bonnet, whipping it off the chassis and into the air.

The sections of the crowd that were not running for cover cheered loudly; everyone likes to see a winner, but they like it more to see a spectacular loss.

In his Supra, Matt did not even have time to register what had happened to Ding, knowing only that he wasn't a threat anymore.

175 metres.

Despite their experience telling them they shouldn't do it, Matt and Winter both briefly checked back at their former opponent, his red Civic skidding wildly along the road, sending racers scattering. With no power from the engine, the Honda coasted to a halt, with nothing seriously injured except for Ding's pride and bank balance.

With the immediate drama over, all attentions turned back to Matt and Winter.

120 miles per hour.

200 metres.

Halfway there and there were only two cars left in it, one black, one white. Ying and Yang.

Male and Female. Equal and opposite.

210 metres.

220.

230.

Neck and neck all the way.

Matt looked across the street, the temporary raceway, their proving ground, and even from a distance, he could see that Winter was smiling, a gleaming, dazzling beam. She blew him a kiss - one of goodbye as opposed to romance - the instant before a NOS boost rocketed her car forward, sending it streaking away from Matt.

You think that's too much for me? Surprise surprise baby.

270 metres.

Another shot of NOS blew into Matt's engine, timed with another upshift, taking the Supra up into 6th and final gear. Up to 140mph; warp speed.

Back up next to Winter.

The world whipped past at unimaginable speeds, the rest of the universe becoming a blur to the two chariots locked side by side. Everything else; the crowds, the buildings, Los Angeles, the world, was unimportant at that very moment.

Taking his hand from the gearstick, Matt turned to blow his foe a kiss, albeit one loaded with sarcasm and wrapped in a mischievous grin, before getting back to the serious business of winning. Very good, Reilly, now just win the damn race.

Looking back to the road, he missed the frigid glare Winter returned before she too concentrated on the finish line, looming large in her windscreen.

300 metres.

Just another 102 metres to go and the race was over, and that distance would be covered in seconds.

The knot growing ever larger in his stomach, Matt was almost sure that he was going to win it, just. After all, his car was almost certainly more powerful and definitely had more...

What the hell?

Matt looked to his left, and saw Winter's RX-7 a full three feet ahead of him, obviously defying his race logic. He couldn't believe it, just couldn't believe it at all. He was in top gear, foot to the floor, going at 170mph and she was still beyond him. How?

350 metres.

Shit! She must have replaced...damn, how could I have missed it?. It was the one thing, the only crucial thing that he hadn't taken into account. Where as a Supra has a 6-speed gearbox, a regular RX-7 only has a 5-speed gearbox. While the two cars are evenly matched in most other area, it is with the gear train that the Supra wins every time. With the extra gear ratio, a Supra can outperform an RX-7, but when they're both with six gears, it's the Mazda that's the better car.

It just hadn't occurred to Matt that Winter could have easily added a 6-speed transmission to her car, boosting her power level beyond his. Against everything he had been taught about racing, he had underestimated his opponent, and now that was going to cost him dearly.

Unless... He debated for the smallest of moments, trying to figure what the consequences would be if it went wrong. And if it goes wrong, it'll go very wrong. His mind set, he now knew it.

He knew there was only one thing left to do, but it was crazy.

It had never been tested.

It would probably destroy his car.

It was probably suicide.

And it just might work. I only hope that it isn't too late.

Taking his hand from the stick, he blindly groped back and found one of the tanks of NOS. Slipping his hand around the valve, he found a small circular button, and jabbed his finger down on it twice. In the blink of an eye, the entire remaining contents of the NOS canister were sucked out via the feed tube, forced under Matt's seat, through the chassis of the car, up into the engine block and into a special NOS injector.

A normal NOS injector squirts the gas into the engine while it's firing, where the gas ignites and adds more power to the engine by means of the small explosion making the pistons stroke quicker. Matt's special injector however, compressed the NOS in a separate container, ignited it and then forced it into the engine. The result was something like an afterburner on a jet fighter, giving a short-lived but highly powerful boost. Unfortunately, jet fighters are designed to handle these forces, but car engines are not.

The NOS literally exploded into the engine, bucking the car as if it had been rocked by the hand of God. It leapt forward, pinning Matt tightly back into his seat with the sudden and rapid acceleration. Unable to sit up or even move his body, it was all he could do to keep his hands gripped on the wheel.

Glancing at the Toyota's dash, Matt could see the rev counter going off the chart, the engine operating way, way past it's redline. Not good, he thought, barely having time to imagine what the effects would be on the engine before concentrating his mind on the race once again. In saying that, there was nothing he could do about the race now, except hope his boost had worked for the better.

With the speed that the nitrous had hit the engine, some of it did not even have time to power the engine pistons, instead launching out of the back of Matt's car as a three-foot jet of blue flame. It looked truly spectacular, and sparked off a cheering frenzy in the crowd.

390 metres.

180mph.

With the engine screaming like a banshee at full tilt, the Supra shot forward, picking up speed with every inch. And with every inch, the distance between the two cars dropped.

Closer. Two-and-a-half feet between them now.

The vibrations rattling through the car buzzed through the steering wheel and the seat, moving all the way through Matt's body, clicking his vertebrae, rattling his teeth. His grip on the steering wheel threatened to tear his knuckles through his skin, and his head was beginning to ache from all the pressure the acceleration had exerted on him.

It was no distraction at all.

395.

Come on, come on you son of a bitch.

Closer. Two feet and gaining.

The jet of flame from Matt's exhaust had disappeared, now replaced by thick plumes of black smoke; a clear indication of the damage that the afterburner had caused. But that was something to be dealt with later.

397.

One foot.

I am not losing this race. Certainly not by one foot.

Closer.

Closer to Winter.

Neck and neck.

Both racers had an overwhelming desire to glance at each other, to see where the other was, but kept their eyes firmly drilled on the finish line, as if willpower alone would decide the outcome.

398.

"Matt. Please. I'm trapped."

399...

Matt broke.

He couldn't take it anymore.

He turned.

Looked.

Gasped in fright.

400...

Ahead by a matter of inches.

...

He couldn't believe it.

...

He was ahead by a matter of inches.

402.3 metres.

And finish.

Matt touched gently on the brake, but the sense of joy mixed with the adrenaline rushing through his veins made him feel like he could have stopped the car using his feet. He had won, he had done it, and now only the even harder part was remaining. Now he would have to beat Sean Westwood.

The Supra came to a gradual halt, and was immediately mobbed by impressed racers and spectators. Impressed by the decals, the driver, the technology, but most of all, impressed by the win. They laughed, cheered and banged on the chassis, all applauding this new victor, especially those who had bet on him. From a blue Nissan Skyline, a man called Kobe laughed at his new friend's victory.

Clouds of black smoke continued to pour out of the exhaust, a testament to the damage that the engine had suffered, but no-one cared, least of all Matt Reilly.

He slowly removed his aching hands from the steering wheel as if they were as heavy as lead. Trembling, he brought them to his face and sighed through his fingers, his heavy breathing reverberating in his cupped hands.

His shoulders sagged as he slumped forward against the steering wheel for a minute, before beating his fists on the roof with pure joy. No-one could hear him over the engine and the noise of the crowd, but that didn't matter, he said it anyway.

"Westwood, you son of a bitch, it's time."