"There," Rick finished loading Strip's right Gatling gun for him. "Ready."
It'd taken all of two minutes to reach the armory in the basement of building twenty-nine, the building that afforded the easiest access to their runway on the training grounds. Rick immediately tasked himself with thoroughly equipping Strip with the latest and greatest ammunition available. For the first time in his life, the racer welcomed it.
As they finished, the rest of the brigade entered the room, still scarred from the morning's fight. Strip glanced around at them. They all appeared so much older, more subdued. It seemed clear they no longer considered this a game.
Somehow, both Howie and Laura had been repaired quickly enough over the course of the day to offer their services again, but even so were nothing but a patchwork of bare metal, primer, and missing accessories. Everyone else was dinged, scratched, or burnt in at least one place. They'd been through hell and back, only to be thrown into the fire again.
They stared at Strip as if they couldn't believe he was really with them once more. He didn't meet any of their gazes. It wasn't a time for reconciliations. If they wanted to talk, they could do so after they decimated their attackers.
"Listen up," Rick announced to them, his voice still weak. "This ends tonight. I –"
The walls around them rumbled as building one finally fell in the near distance. A thin layer of plaster shook loose from the ceiling and showered around them. There wasn't a soul in that room that didn't understand the gravity of the situation in some way or another.
"I want Ford done with tonight," he continued. "One way or another, this will end. You know their weakness. Incinerate them. Do whatever you have to. I'm not losing anyone else after tonight."
The other members of the brigade looked confused, but nodded. Rick had never bothered to show any sort of genuine emotion in their presence before, and here he was, practically in tears, and accompanied by their long lost brother. What was going on?
"Go." Rick commanded, pressing a button to open the garage door. "Win."
Organized in two perfect lines of six, they morphed and hit the runway. The air felt as though it were choking them as they rose through a thick layer of smoke and heat. Not far to the south, the white Chrysler Pentastar marquee lay broken, flickering among the rubble that had once been building one.
"There's eight of them." Izzy summarized, turning to the south. "That's how many escaped this morning. There's ele- twelve of us. We have the advantage. Stay high. Let's burn 'em."
Strip saw them coming from just beyond the remains of the fallen building, a wide circle of Mustangs around another car in the center. The fire rising from the wreckage cast long shadows behind the armored, black cars on the ground, making them look to be the embodiment of death itself.
"Uh, correct me if I'm wrong, but I see nine," a voice chimed in from behind them.
They were right. There were the eight Mustangs, but the car they surrounded was not one of them. As the brigade came into range, the car in the middle raised its weapon and fired at them. A fraction of a second later, each Mustang copied the center car's move with practiced perfection. To the untrained eye, it seemed to unfold simultaneously. Strip noticed, however, having become a master of observation and split-second decision-making.
"Scatter!" Izzy yelled, pulling away and out of the line of fire.
Someone screamed as a bullet hit them. A couple others fired back. The cars on the ground launched another short-range missile into a nearby decoy building, leveling it instantly.
Strip, suddenly hyper aware of everything around him, felt time slow to a crawl. This was nothing more than a chaotic game of chess. Once, in between races, Tex had showed him how to play.
"It'll sharpen your ability to see two or three moves ahead of your opponent. In your case, that's the other racers."
That what Tex had said, and though Strip had scoffed at it at the time, he ended up finding it quite useful. Racers were highly predictable on the track, especially those he'd raced with for several years. Why should this be any different?
"The Mustangs are being controlled by the car in the middle," Strip observed.
"We take him out, they're all done for," Izzy finished.
"How are we going to get down there?" someone else pointed out. "Their cover fire is too thick."
"They can't focus on all of us at once," Strip answered. "Spread out. Dive when you see an opening. Anticipate their next move."
No one hesitated. Strip banked wide and faked flying away until the bullets stopped flying in his direction. Promptly, he started into a wide circle to come around behind the Fords. As he came in on approach, two bright red and orange explosions disrupted the Mustangs' formation, engulfing the three in the front. In the flash of light, Strip got a good look at the car in the middle.
He blinked a couple times. That wasn't a Mustang. That wasn't even a Ford-built car.
"Three down!" Matt yelled as he and Jess pulled up and away from their airstrike.
Ahead, Strip saw two more members of the brigade coming over, preparing to strike. He started firing away at the remaining enemies, drawing their attention.
"Go now!" he ordered. "I'll cover you."
One bomb fell short of its target, blasting another crater in the midst of the already molten Mustang bodies. The other hit between the ringleader and the next nearest 'stang. The center car was blown from his position several hundred yards away from the rest of his fighters. He seemed shaken, but otherwise unharmed while the Mustang that had been nearest him suffered a much worse fate.
"One more down."
"Are you guys seeing this?" Strip asked once he'd pulled away to a safe distance again.
"Seeing what?"
"That car down there. Their leader. He's not a Ford."
"What?
"I'm serious. It's a Grand National."
"Wait – a Buick?"
"Dude, you're right," someone else said. "Has GM joined Ford?"
"That wouldn't make any sense." Strip thought aloud. "Not after the attack on the RenCen earlier."
The final weapon…
GM will experience a minor setback from within…
"Looks like Ford convinced one of GM's own to work on their behalf." Rick's voice came in over the radio. "That's why those Mustangs weren't at the RenCen. The Buick could just go in on his own and blow the place sky high without ever being suspect. They probably used that as a distraction to sneak up on us."
"He's the weapon." Izzy's voice grew grim. "Take him out."
Order gave way to chaos as the brigade converged on the dazed Buick. It was hard to say what exactly happened first.
The Mustangs rushed to guard the Grand National as the fliers grew nearer, but before they got very far an explosion incinerated one and sent another flying into the unwelcoming darkness. The two remaining Fords stopped and started firing into the air with renewed accuracy. The Buick finally gained his bearings and resumed firing as well.
The next explosion came from behind Strip in the sky. Static briefly fuzzed over their radio as a glowing hunk of flaming metal fell to the ground. He couldn't tell who it was. The Buick dodged an array of bullets and fired on them again as he began to drive away from the Chrysler grounds. The Mustangs didn't follow.
Izzy chased the Buick down as he ran and with practiced precision let her last firebomb fall. It hit him square on the hood and blasted a crater half the size of a city block. The Mustangs fired again, and yet another agonizing cry in the air was cut short by sudden detonation. Strip saw Jess fall. They were aiming for the bombs they carried. She was gone before she ever hit the ground.
"Finish them!" Izzy screamed, watching her sister fall.
Strip wasn't sure what hit him, a bullet or a piece of shrapnel. It could have been anything, really. Whatever it was, it caught his right thruster and ripped it from his body, taking the right half of his tail fin with it. He tried to steady himself, but the hydraulics that controlled his wings were also busted, spraying fluid everywhere. He fell into a death spiral.
Time slowed again as he watched the ground spin beneath him. For a brief moment, he wondered if this had been what it felt like when the Fabulous Hudson Hornet lost control on Fireball Beach that day back in 1954. This made all those pileups on the circuit feel like child's play.
As he fell, he narrowly avoided colliding with Izzy as they crossed airspace. Her shriek made him vaguely conscious of reality again.
"No!"
But he didn't hear her voice. It was Lynda's. He realized he'd forgotten to call her when he arrived, and now it was past dark. The news stations were undoubtedly capturing footage of the battle from somewhere. She had to be losing her mind.
I promised her I'd come back. I promised to call.
Another explosion to his right – no, left – no, right, again, caught his attention. Someone else had fallen, and exploded on impact. The bombs. If the bombs detonated on impact, he'd be a goner for sure. He disengaged the two he still carried and let them fall. It didn't matter where they landed. The resulting shockwave threw him horizontally through the air and into the side of a nearby building. It broke his spiral and his wings. He fell ten stories straight down as busted concrete rained around him.
You're not in flames. This is good. Concentrate. On something. Anything.
Easier said than done. He struggled to open his eyes through the pain rocking his body. Another chunk of concrete from the busted wall he was laid up against came down and smashed into his hood. Another explosion echoed between the buildings.
Something in front of him moved. Caught in the rubble, Strip saw a pair of fear-filled eyes staring back at him. The black car was hyperventilating, struggling to move. The car's front fender lay twenty yards away, with his only weapon still attached. The rest of him was pinned to the ground by a tangled mess of rebar and building materials. He was helpless.
He was a child. Couldn't have been more than half a year old, no older than Strip had been when he'd started seriously training to fight. A windowpane fell from above them and shattered as it landed on the heap of debris holding the Mustang hostage. The impact knocked another piece of debris away, allowing Strip to get a better look at his enemy.
Suddenly, he wasn't at the factory grounds anymore. He was sitting in Victory Lane, being presented with his second Piston Cup again. It all played out exactly as it had the day previous. The confetti had finally settled when someone snuck up behind him and dumped a tank of Nitroade over him in celebration. The press was pressuring him to say something and to pose with the trophy, when someone yelled his name.
Of all the cars he knew that could push their way to the podium to see him through the crowd, it wasn't Lynda or Tex that had been the first to arrive. It was Jake Belleview – the son of one of Strip's closest racing friends, Tori Belleview – the Grand Torino he'd beaten by mere inches to take the championship. The two were so close that Jake viewed Strip as an uncle.
"You won!" the newly manufactured fox body Mustang screamed as he skidded to a stop next to the Dinoco racer. "You did it!"
Strip couldn't help but laugh. The black Mustang was jittering with excitement, taking in the sight of the golden trophy sitting next to him. Strip had to wave away the security guards as they came to collect the intruder.
"He's fine," Strip told them. "Let him have his fun."
"Jake!" a familiar voice shouted through the crowd, as the black and tan Ford pushed his way toward the stage, followed by both Lynda and Tex.
"Tori, you need to start keepin' tabs on your kid." Strip called to him as he finally broke through the last wall of reporters. "He's gonna run off one day, and you'll never find him."
"Oh, I'll know exactly where to find him." Tori laughed. "I just look for you and he's not too far behind."
"He beat you!" Jake taunted his father. "He beat you!"
"Yeah, that's right, kiddo." Strip wasn't about to pass up the opportunity to jokingly rub his win in. "Now, tell me, who's the better racer here?"
"Strip! Team Dinoco always wins over Team Hurst. Always."
"Uh-huh. Alright." Tori cast Strip an accusatory glance. "We'll see about that. Weathers, you're taintin' my own child."
"Just tellin' him how it is." Strip smiled.
"Next year. I'll get you next year." Tori swore. "Come on, Jake. Let's go find your mom."
Strip watched the Mustang hop down from the stage to join his father, bouncing around with excitement.
"Oh, Strip." Tori caught himself and turned around before he disappeared. "Congrats on the win. Heck of a race today."
The sound of gunfire brought Strip out of the past and into the present. The kid was still staring at him and fighting to get out from under a twisted knot of rebar. There was a puddle of oil accumulating on the ground beneath him. It appeared the kid's damage was worse than it seemed on the surface.
"Hey, hey, calm down," Strip said in a gravelly voice. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
The Mustang froze, panting, giving the wrecked Superbird an untrusting glare.
"I'm not gonna hurt you," Strip repeated. "I promise. What's your name?"
The black car looked around as if he expected an attack from another direction. Strip gave him a couple of moments to relax. He couldn't blame him for being scared. They were all scared.
"Jason," the kid finally answered in a weak, quiet voice.
Hearing his voice rent a hole in Strip's soul. Jason was even younger than he'd imagined. Had Ford just pulled these cars off the line the month before to prepare them to fight?
"Okay, Jason." He tried to keep the child's attention away from the fighting. "You're gonna be okay. We're gonna get out of here, you hear?"
"I can't move," he whimpered.
"I know. Don't fight it." Strip told him. "We'll get you out after they're done fightin'. I can't move, either."
Jason looked at the mutilated car-plane hybrid in front of him and steadied his breathing. "What's your name?"
Strip hesitated, but answered truthfully. This wasn't an occasion to worry about identities.
"My name's Strip."
"Like the racer?" the kid perked up.
"Yeah, yeah, just like him." Strip smiled, watching the fear momentarily fade from Jason's eyes.
"He won the Dinoco 400 yesterday. It was so close." Jason said. "I was rootin' for the 72, but he's cool, too."
"Well, the 72 has a good shot next season." Strip thought it funny that this car, who looked so much like Jake, seemed more supportive of Tori than his own son had been.
"Yeah, I –"
They both flinched as shrapnel blew over them. Strip looked over after the fireball died out. There was another molten husk of Mustang burning nearby. The brigade had no idea what they were targeting. He looked to the sky, wanting to call off the attack, but he couldn't see anyone. Where were they?
"Can I ask you a question?" Strip asked.
Jason forced a single nod before slipping into a more compromising position among the rubble. Strip could see the entry wound from a bullet where his fender used to be. How tough did they make these kids to be able to survive that sort of damage?
"Is someone makin' you do this?"
"We do what we're told." Jason said, shuddering. "Stephen wired us to react to the master's commands."
"Who's the master? Is that the Buick?"
"Yeah, he –"
Above them, the outer wall of the building creaked and groaned as it began to collapse. The far end went first, right over Jason. The kid looked up as a section of wall detached and fell towards him. Instinctively, Strip fired a round of bullets at it to try and break it up.
It was too little, too late.
"Kid," he croaked as the dust settled. "Jake- Jason!"
All was quiet save the crumbling infrastructure around them. Strip never saw the column fall toward him. The innocence in the Mustang's face was the last thing he remembered before everything went black.