"What do you mean he's missing?!"
"What do you think I mean? It's all that's been on the news all mornin'."
Strip drove over and flipped the television on again to prove his point. The news channels were absolutely eating the story up.
Izzy stopped pacing the length of her brother's living room and turned to stare at the flat screen. Her eyes widened as the news anchors reiterated time and time again that no one had a clue where the rookie had gone.
"How do you lose track of a racer?" she asked. "Especially one that high profile?"
The Daytona had been staying at the Weathers residence for a few days, trying to make sense of the situation Strip encountered at the 400, but during that time they'd paid little attention to the outside world. Izzy had gone out for a morning drive a few hours earlier, and in her absence, Strip absentmindedly flipped the television on for the first time in a couple days. What followed was near mayhem.
"We gotta go look for him." Izzy rambled. "We can't just sit here and speculate and wait for something to happen, we need to move and –"
"Iz, stop," Strip cut her off sternly. "Now is not the time to panic."
"Now is the perfect time to panic!" Izzy squeaked. "What about this doesn't say panic to you?!"
Strip glanced past his sister into the kitchen and made brief eye contact with Lynda. She was idly preoccupying herself while he dealt with Izzy's panic attack. He couldn't quite tell if the worry in her expression was directed toward the situation in question or the fact that he had to put up with Izzy's obduracy. Maybe it was a little of both.
"We're supposed to be protecting this kid and he just disappears," Izzy reemphasized. "And like two days after you find out he's in the line of fire! He's probably lying dead in a ditch outside of St. Louis, for all we know."
"That's way too far north."
"Not my point, Strip!" Izzy snapped, her raspy voice louder than ever. "How can you sit there so calmly?"
"Izzy, just stop. Stop for one second," he ordered her, scowling. "Don't raise your voice at me. You just need to calm down and listen. Find somethin' and focus on it. Try to relax."
Izzy glowered at him, but kept her mouth shut. Strip watched her and waited until her rate of breathing slowed. Ever since their last battle together, she'd gained a tendency to overreact to little things. This, however, was no little thing, and the sudden news opened up a multitude of old wounds she'd been suppressing.
"Right, so here are the facts," Strip began in a calm, even tone. "One, the kid's gone missin'. Two, Ford's out to get him, and Hicks has a deadline he has to meet. Three, McQueen had a solid hour's head start, and it looks like that hauler didn't stop until he got to the track. Four, Chick didn't show up in L.A. until today. There's no way the two could have crossed paths. Call me crazy, but I'm not so sure his disappearance is related."
"Okay," Izzy said quietly, never breaking eye contact. "But what are the chances? What if it is related? What if Stephen set something else up?"
"The timing still doesn't make sense," Strip explained. "There's no way a car of that age and model could catch up in time. And again, it didn't sound like he's gonna intervene directly in anythin' until after the race."
"What if there's something we don't know about?" she asked. "We could be caught unaware."
"Well, if that's the case, what are we gonna do about it?" he asked in return. "We can't just go flyin' blind into this, Iz. There's over twenty-five hundred miles between here and the west coast. Tryin' to find the kid in that much unknown's worse than findin' a needle in a haystack. We don't stand a chance if we try that."
Izzy's expression softened into one of pure worry more than anger. Her gaze fell as she considered his words.
"Tell me, Strip," she muttered, "what are we supposed to do? I can't just sit here."
"Hate to crash the party," Lynda hesitantly entered the room, not wanting to overstep her boundaries, "but I should probably remind you the haulers are gonna be here in a couple hours to take us to Cali."
"Mm, right," Strip remembered, feeling his stress levels rise. "It's gonna take us nearly two days to get there."
Izzy sighed in quiet frustration. "Okay, okay. In terms of things we can do, lemme think. I forgot about the time constraints."
"Tell you what, we'll get to L.A. as fast as the semis can take us. I'll keep a watch on things from there, see if I notice anythin' suspicious. I'll radio you if I find somethin'," Strip told her. "In the meantime, you might be able to find somethin' up in Detroit. Get Rick to help you. Tell him what we know."
Izzy nodded, but her expression was still worried. "I don't like being that far away from you. If something happens in California, and I'm a five hour flight away, I won't be able to – "
"I can take care of myself. I think you forget that sometimes."
She looked up at him and for a split second, she didn't see the wise, seasoned racer he'd become. She saw the wounded flier crashing onto the training grounds, trailing smoke and leaking fluids on the brink of unconsciousness. She saw a mangled body being lifted out from underneath tons of crumbled concrete and steel. However, in the next second, she saw that same young face that used to obsess over video reels that were decades old. The same car that could best her at her own games and make her laugh when no one else could.
"Okay," she choked out, finding herself on the brink of tears. "Just touch base every so often, alright?"
Strip nodded and watched her hurriedly make a break for the door. Lynda drove over to join him as the sound of Izzy's engine faded in the distance.
"Is she gonna be okay?" she asked.
"I dunno, Lyn," he sighed in defeat. "But somethin' tells me we're about to find out."
The entire racing community seemed to sigh with relief the night they found McQueen. The kid's sponsors, his fans - nearly everyone that cared about him had given up hope, but the night before the race, someone called in and tipped RSN to his location. Within hours, they were live broadcasting the rookie's trip to California on every channel imaginable.
"Looks like he had a good time, really," Tex commented as Team Dinoco gathered around a television inside the sponsor's tent. "I know where I'll be gettin' my next coat of paint."
"Reckon he'll make it in time?" one of the pitties asked. "'Cause if not, we've got this race in the bag."
"They ain't gonna start the race without him," Tex said. "He's the only real competition we've got. It'd be borin' otherwise."
Tex's remark sparked a wave of snickers through the pit crew. Strip felt the corner of his mouth tug into half a smile as he looked up at the screen. He'd never in recent memory felt so relieved. He'd spent nearly every moment since arriving at the track subtly observing and investigating the goings-on around him, but all that effort had been fruitless. Needless to say, after several days, Izzy's efforts had come up dry as well.
"I'm glad he's okay," Lynda said in a voice so quiet only Strip could hear. "I was startin' to think the worst, y'know."
"Yeah," he agreed. "I think we all were."
"What are the chances?" she asked even quieter. "It really was just a coincidence."
He looked at her and shrugged.
"Well, King, I hope you got your practice laps in," Tex joked. "You're gonna need 'em."
"Who's side are you on, man?" Strip asked.
"Come on, I'm jokin'," Tex assured him. "I know you'll win. You always do."
The green flag dropped. Strip accelerated toward the wide-open track before him, completely focused for the first time all week. It was a beautiful day for a race. The sky was clear and sunny, but not too warm. Over time, the veteran had found that the arid climate and sea-level altitude of the west coast lent itself well to his lack of direct fuel injection. It was at races like these where he thrived, and that day he was milking his engine for every last bit of power he had.
Only a few turns into the race, he heard the unmistakable sound of tires squealing across asphalt, going quiet as they careened into the infield. Confused, he glanced back and saw McQueen spun out in the grass. Chick hadn't even touched him. What had happened?
"Kid just spun out on his own," Roger notified him as though he'd read his racer's mind. "Looks good for you today. Stay focused, King."
Behind him, Strip heard Chick comment to his own crew. He wondered how well the Buick would like losing to "the old man" one last time. The thought of it spurred him onward.
Lap after uneventful lap passed, and as Lightning somehow seemed to find the inspiration to make up his lost lap, Strip settled into a slower pace, opting for endurance over speed. Chick didn't try to pass him, and for a while, they even cruised around the track side by side. Two hundred laps between three cars didn't warrant unneeded action until the end.
"McQueen's behind you now. Time to step it up. Ten laps to go."
Strip heeded his crew chief's advice and focused on building his lead. He'd held it this long, he knew he could keep it.
Fwubfwubfwubfwubfwub. The distinctive pattern of a flat tire followed a brief clang of metal on metal.
"Caution's out. Bet you can't guess what happened there."
Strip looked to pit row to acknowledge his advisor, but before he ever laid eyes on his own team, had to do a double take.
Is that – is that The Fabulous Hudson Hornet? No. I'm goin' crazy. But – it is. It is!
A flash of yellow appeared in the middle of the track in front of him. He slammed on his brakes, tires squealing, to avoid ramming into the pace car at an unreasonable speed. As they paced around the track, Strip looked up to the flat screens several times. He couldn't believe it. The same car that he'd idolized for as long as he could remember was parked atop McQueen's pit stand.
Had I found the Hudson Hornet out in the middle of nowhere, I'd probably go missin' for a week, too.
After what was quite possibly the quickest pit stop ever recorded in Piston Cup history, McQueen didn't lose hardly any ground as he restarted right behind the leaders. Somehow, this was still anyone's race to win.
The white flag dropped as the racers rounded turn four in the penultimate lap of the race. The crowd was hopelessly restless in anticipation, their cheers and screams amalgamating in a roar across the track. One way or another, this was the end. Strip crossed that finish line with an odd sense of contented accomplishment, but undeterred determination.
Almost immediately, he heard Lightning gaining on him, the noteworthy sound of an engine being pushed to the limits. Strip focused solely on the track in front of him. Less than a minute separated him from a relaxing drive into retirement. He had to make the most of it.
Turn one greeted them with Hick's pent up aggression. Lightning passed him to the inside, hoping to overtake them both by holding to the lower groove, as the middle seemed to be favored by the two older racers. Chick saw his shot at glory fade even further out of reach as he fell into third. Rage and panic worked well to his advantage, and he reacted at their will. He poured on the speed and rammed the rookie as hard as he could, knocking Lightning off the track and onto the infield below.
Strip caught a glimpse of red behind him and to the left, raking through the grass at dangerously high speeds. However, before he could react in any way, Chick slammed into him as well in a miscalculated rebound from his impact with McQueen. Strip felt himself being pulled toward the outside wall as he instinctively balanced the fine line between over- and under-correcting, all while maintaining as much momentum as he could. Behind him, Chick struggled to do the same.
Turn two catered to their advantage. Despite futile attempts to keep their speed up, Strip and Chick both regained their grip in the lower grove. As they came out of the turn, Strip glanced down at the infield. What he saw amazed him.
Lightning never slowed down as he slid through the grass. Instead, he deliberately deployed a dirt-racing tactic made famous by the Fabulous Hudson Hornet. The rookie, in all his inexperience, drifted across the grass and kept himself pointed in the right direction. For a split second, Strip flashed back to all those days he'd spent watching the legend's racing videos, alone in his room. Drifting was the one racing technique he thought he'd never get to apply on the superspeedways, and this kid had figured it out almost immediately.
McQueen skated back up onto the asphalt several yards ahead of his competitors. Still in awe at what he'd witnessed, Strip felt himself grin.
Go on, kid. You deserve it.
They barreled down the straightaway toward turn three as McQueen broadened his lead. With only two turns left, the winner was apparent. The fans loved it, even those that weren't exclusively rooting for the rookie. That day was going down in the history books with the kid at the center of it all.
Strip's excitement at the inexorable win faltered as he noticed Chick trying once again to force his way past. He clenched his teeth and frowned, moving up the track to block his opponent. Chick swung low, but Strip anticipated it. Up, block, down, block. Chick growled in frustration.
"I am not coming in behind you again, old man!"
The Buick pushed Strip's rear end out from under him with uncalled for rage, and sent him into a spin off the track. His tires left the asphalt before he ever came near the grass of the infield. He froze, caught in a crippling state of panic.
He wasn't at the Los Angeles International Speedway anymore. It wasn't a bright, sunny day, and he wasn't surrounded by friends, family, and fans. He was spiraling out of control through the dark, smoky air toward a crumbling building while fires burned in the distance and the cries of the dying swirled around him. He thought he heard his sister scream – or was it Lynda? He couldn't tell. A picture flashed before his eyes of a scared Mustang. It was Jason slowly dying as the building fell to seal his fate. No, wait. That was Jake rushing into the medical clinic to check on his father. Which was it?
The Piston Cup legend hit the ground nose first at no less than a hundred and ninety miles an hour, jarring him from his waking nightmare. The impact bent his frame, and his body went numb as he flipped up into the air a second time, rolling. His spoiler ripped itself from his right rear fender. A cooling hose leading from his radiator came unfastened. His body crumpled more and more with every roll. The surface deep mechanisms that controlled his latent, outdated transformative processes pulled away from the individual panels. Something else snapped. He wasn't sure what.
An eternity later, perhaps five or six seconds, he came to a rest in the dirt. For a moment, there was nothing. He couldn't hear anything, save two engines – no, one engine and a set of squalling tires on the track. He struggled to open his eyes as feeling returned to him, attempting to look at the track beyond his smoking hood. For several seconds, the pain blinded him. The combination of crumpled panels and shattered parts surrounding a overheating engine made him long for unconsciousness. He tried to breathe, hoping the cool air would help. It just made the pain worse.
Through the silence, someone was celebrating that didn't sound like Lightning at all. The crowd remained silent. In all his years of racing, he'd never heard silence from the fans. Strip wondered if his hearing had failed. He sucked in another painful breath and again tried to look toward the track.
McQueen was just sitting there, feet away from the finish line, idling. Chick was doing donuts in the grass several hundred yards away. It didn't make any sense. Strip hazily watched as the rookie kicked himself into reverse and began backing toward him.
"What're you doin', kid?" It hurt to talk, but Strip didn't understand. Why would anyone stop before the finish line?
"I think the King should finish his last race."
Lightning moved behind him to carefully push him up out of the grass toward the track. Strip tried not to protest, but his body thought otherwise. He groaned a little as his wheels rolled forward on their bent axles. His crippled wobble became more apparent as McQueen pushed him onto the asphalt.
"You just gave up the Piston Cup, you know that?" he asked, looking up at the thousands upon thousands of fans watching them in silence. Why would someone about to make history willingly choose not to do so?
"You know, a grumpy old racecar I know once told me something," the rookie answered. "It's just an empty cup."
Strip looked back at the rookie briefly, sudden clarity dawning on him. In pit row, he saw the Hudson Hornet watching them. He knew about how the legend never finished his last race, how that had always seemed so unfair. All that injustice and somehow, in a matter of a few short days, that very same car had turned this rookie's attitude completely around. That arrogant young hotrod had given up his shot at being immortalized in the history books just so he could prevent what happened to his mentor from happening to someone else.
Strip remained silent as they crossed the finish line together, a new conviction filling him as the crowd went wild, unlike anything he'd ever seen before.
Lightning McQueen must be protected at all costs.
It was personal now.