Classified location, somewhere in Britain, July 2011.

"What is this? Francesco thought this was an interview!"

The "interview" room seemed more like one of those interrogation cells the FBI would reserve for terrorists. Shadowy corners. A long horizontal mirror on one gray, stone wall. A chill, though there was no visible ventilation. A metal desk with a manila folder and lamp, the only source of light. Many machines plugged into one tiny power strip. A projector suspended in the middle of the ceiling.

It was definitely not a place Francesco Bernoulli, given this information, would have chosen to go. He had half a mind to speed back to his five-star suite across the street from this agency. But a dark blue SUV had already rolled into the doorway, practically breathing down Francesco's rear wing.

"Please calm down," the SUV said. "We won't take long here. Now, for the recording, park within the rectangle."

Duct tape marked out a parking spot on the far side of the desk. Grumbling, Francesco rolled into place. The SUV parked on the opposite side, allowing a small forklift to drive in behind him.

"Thank you for coming today," said the SUV, laying a tire on the manila folder. "Seeing your busy schedule, we were not able to contact you for a sooner appointment. And we didn't want to abduct you, due to your celebrity status."

"Abduct?" Francesco repeated with a gulp. "Like-a aliens? Are you not a spy agency?"

That was the only reason he had come. The World Grand Prix— the ultimate championship title— had been ruined by Axlerod's villainy and a rumored international espionage plot. So when the accused espionage organization reached out to Francesco's team, seeking to get his perspective on the events, he agreed to come in. It seemed only fair; they wanted answers from him, and he wanted answers from them.

The SUV's frown deepened. "Yes. Yes, unfortunately, we are. You will call me Dave."

"Dave? As in David?"

"Just Dave is fine." Dave slid the folder to the forklift. The forklift took it and skimmed it while Dave turned back to Francesco. "Now, let's begin. How well do you recall the World Grand Prix?"

Francesco had been asked about the WGP many times in the past few weeks, but it never got easier to answer. It did get easier to act nonchalant about it. "Oh, very well. It had its highs and lows. Francesco won in Tokyo, but everything went downhill from there…."

Even though his hometown was still his most loyal fanbase, he was humiliated to have lost on his home course. But he couldn't even stay frustrated at Lightning McQueen over it, because almost all the other racers had gotten into a massive pile-up. The wreck dominated the headlines; the only thing that could have caused this many mishaps was the new fuel, Allinol. When given the choice, Francesco and his team decided to not use it for the London race.

"That's-a when everything went wrong," Francesco sighed. "Francesco was in the lead, yes? Cruising-a toward victory! But then… ZOOM!" He thrust one of his open wheels forward, to emphasize the speed he had witnessed. "McQueen and a tow truck flew past, almost destroying Francesco! He had no hope to catch them! And he said, 'What is-a happening? This is a bad dream!' But he did-a not wake up!"

It was then that he noticed the forklift jotting down everything he said on a notepad. He paused, wondering if he needed to repeat himself.

"That's it?" Dave pressed. "That's all you saw?"

Francesco furrowed the top of his windshield. He had tried very hard to block that race out of his memory, but it had proven quite stubborn. "No. A few minutes later, Francesco was almost hit by a purple comet! WHOOSH! Straight-a from his nightmares!" He shuddered, remembering his own scream. "He cannot-a go three seconds without looking over his rearview mirrors ever since. Francesco tried to get larger mirrors, but the women did not like them. And Francesco must please his fans, no?"

"Hmmm. And the Axlerod plot was revealed some time after you saw that?"

"Yes. Francesco's team called him off the track. Told him that it was-a not safe to race anymore. Francesco was distraught, of course, to not finish a course. But no one finished that race. Everyone pulled into the pits. We were glued to our televisions as Sir Tow Mater uncovered the conspiracy. That Axlerod planned to blow us up so he could-a earn more money… Do you know what it feels like to be used-a like that?"

"Every day," Dave muttered, glancing into his own mirrors. Whether it was a gesture of self-reflection or just a way of monitoring Francesco, the racer didn't know. (He had met a couple of spy cars that had computers in their mirrors. Maybe Dave had those, too. Francesco wondered where he could get some.) "What exactly did you see on the television?"

"The tow truck and McQueen soared through the air, landing right-a in front of the Queen! Her security guards were shouting and many cars fled— We could not-a hear very well, but they said there was a bomb. And then there were these two colorful cars who were spies."

"The colorful cars stood out to you?"

"Yes. Francesco met them later. Very nice. Especially the purple one— Holley Shiftwell. She was the purple comet Francesco spoke of. A car with-a jet boosters, very unique. Francesco would pursue her, but her heart belongs to the tow truck. She is-a his girlfriend now. She is a spy as well. Do you know her?"

Dave muttered something that sounded like an American or British curse word. He motioned for the forklift to come closer, and looked over the notes. "I know of her. Have you talked to anyone about her?"

"Just-a my therapist."

"What did your therapist think?"

"He could-a barely believe it. But then Francesco showed him the news. Then he believed, and helped Francesco overcome the trauma. Perhaps she did-a not see him while she went so fast. But if she did, Francesco believes she meant no harm. She would-a have hit him. In any case, Francesco has-a forgiven Shiftwell."

"I'm sure she'll be happy to hear that."

Francesco rubbed a front tire on the ground as a thought occurred to him. "What is her number?"

"Are you serious?"

"We great racers started a group chat to discuss our troubles. Perhaps Francesco could invite her, and she could provide further insight. To help us make sense of things."

"But wouldn't you rather just be normal?" Dave asked. "I mean, certainly not normal, as in average, but normal, as in the status quo. Before the spy conspiracy business. Wouldn't you rather just… forget about that part?"

"At times." Francesco sighed, getting lost in his thoughts. "Axlerod could have-a killed Francesco, if Francesco had not stopped using Allinol. His demise would have-a impacted millions of fans around the world— scarred them forever! Francesco thought it was an honor to be chosen for these races. But he was-a only a pawn. A famous, gorgeous face… that could be tossed aside at any moment. It keeps Francesco up at night— well, it could-a also be our superior Italian coffee."

Dave frowned even more deeply. Something like pity flashed in his eyes— but it was quickly replaced by that dismissive Ugh, rich people problems look that Francesco often received, but never let himself get too down about.

"McQueen said-a something that Francesco admires," Francesco continued before Dave could ask another question. "'Crashes are a part of racing, but something like that should never happen.' He was right. This should-a never have happened. How many cars did Axlerod pay off to keep quiet? You cannot make this stuff up!"

"We agree. Even our best agents didn't suspect him until it was almost too late. And that's why we're calling in all of you racers, and other vehicles who were hurt by this plot. We're going to study this case intensively so we can ensure it never goes this far again."

Dave nodded to the forklift, who flipped the notepad shut and left the room. The door locked behind her. Seconds later, the projector lowered from the ceiling, shedding loose dust particles. Fairly innocent— except for a giant suction cup where the lens would be.

Now, after hearing that the trigger for Allinol exploding was hidden in a TV camera, Francesco had grown wary of almost any piece of technology. He had chucked a bedroom lamp out a window. An old stereo that he'd been meaning to pawn had finally been pawned. Everything had gone but his computer, which was a necessary evil.

So when that projector moved, Francesco's engine revved in protest almost on its own. "What-a is that?"

"It's part of the process. It will ease your pain." Hesitantly, Dave rolled forward a bit. "Before we move on, I have to ask. Why do you talk in third person?"

It was so different that Francesco's brain took three seconds to process it. "What?"

"You always talk about yourself like a different individual. Are you aware of that?"

"Oh, yes. Francesco's mama gave him a name that she wants him to be proud of. And Francesco will-a use it as much as he can. Besides, the Francesco you speak to is a different individual, no? The well-loved, eloquent international racing superstar versus the well-loved, eloquent racing superstar with pains and fears about the future, you see?"

Dave's eyes grew a bit larger, as if he were hit by a realization. Then he refocused. "Ah. I see. Well, if you just look up a little— for the camera— we can continue with the int… erview. Hopefully, this time will ease some of those pains and fears that you think about so often."

Francesco still didn't like the sound of that, but he knew there wasn't much of a choice. So he tipped his front end upward. The projector began to whir, and the suction cup seemed to move until positioned directly at his eyes.

Perhaps that was some new type of camera— or, judging from the rest of the room's appearance, the cheapest available. Advanced espionage operations probably drained the funding for interior decor. Either way, Francesco made a mental note to give this spy organization some money to brighten up the space.

—

Francesco left the building a couple hours later, believing that he'd done an interview for a small British newspaper. And he had been paid handsomely, since he typically didn't bother himself with such minor media outlets. It was nothing to brag about on the group chat.

Dave groaned as he rolled out of the interrogation room. His forklift assistant, Vivian, locked the door. "Well, that's one interview down. Who's next? His therapist? Or should we go through the other racers first?"

"I don't even care. This job is the worst. These narcissists… making me feel bad for them! Ugh. Maybe when McMissile gets fired, I can take his position."

Vivian laughed harder than Dave would have liked. "Don't kid yourself. He may not get fired. The big boss highly values him. And even then, you failed the endurance test three times."

"They set you up to fail! Ten miles in four minutes? That's insanity!"

"It's called basic survival skills, Davey."

"Shut it!"

Vivian continued to snicker quietly. Dave rolled his eyes, annoyed that he had been called off summer holiday for this.

Both of them were serving on a special task force: the World Grand Prix Collateral Committee. They'd spent the past couple weeks in cold basements filled with computers, bribing news outlets, scrubbing McMissile and Shiftwell from video reels, and erasing any mention of spies from the newspapers.

Now all they had to do was track down every last car who knew anything about them and bribe them into silence. Or wipe their memories.