I steady my breathing by tracing the gray veins on the stone beneath me. In a matter of hours, I will be driving up Mount Giga. The exhibition race that will kick off the Impulse Cup is tonight. My palms sweat in anticipation. I’d been in the garage with Screw, my chief mechanic, adjusting the settings on my GT500 all morning. Her compressors have been acting up lately. I can’t have the most important part of my life in less than top shape before the Cup. She needs to be ready. Screw said to trust him when I got the call from Brody that the boss wanted a word. Took the words “on penalty of death” to get me to part with my baby.
My eyebrow twitches. I’m here, and no one is speaking. I can’t speak unless spoken to, so… I barely hold in the snort as I await the pleasure of the man I serve. Don’t get me wrong. I’d give my life for the sake of the boss. Everyone in the Bitterblade Mob would. I just have more important things to do than play “guess what the boss wants.”
“RC,” comes the sigh from the man behind the screen. I tense. Whenever he speaks, it’s always with a relaxed tone. He can order your execution sounding like he’s bored out of his mind. I’ve witnessed it. No one rises to the top of the Mob without at the very least having a bloodthirsty nature. In fact, the higher you are, the more psychotic you have to be. So let this be lesson one: to underestimate the boss’s casual tone can literally mean your death. It must get lonely when only five people know what you look like.
I continue to wait. Saying my name doesn’t equate to being given the leave to speak. For all I know he’s merely tasting my name on his tongue. He’s been known to do that. Another sigh, then the creak of chair springs. I don’t have to look to know he’s shifting his position. Can we please move this along? I have better things to do.
Despite the impertinent question polluting my head, I know I’d wait all day if it pleased the boss. As Brody once taught me, thoughts can only be dangerous once spoken. I learned to hold my tongue years ago. Speak when necessary. This is lesson number two.
“How are preparations for the Impulse Cup going?” he finally asks—his tone breathy, as if stifling a yawn.
“As to be expected, sir,” I say to the floor. “Screw is currently adjusting the GT’s compression system.”
“I trust you have everything you need?”
“More than I could ask for, sir.” The truth. As the boss’s lead driver, I can ask for the moon in the name of winning a race, and the Mob will move heaven and earth to pull the celestial body down to earth for me. Yet there is one slight problem. I flinch at the boss’s next words.
“And yet you remain third in the rankings.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste a distinct metallic tang. My rank is not from the lack of trying. The guys ranked first and second are beasts on the road. I swallow and formulate my response.
“This year I will take down Ace and Bedlam for your pleasure, sir.”
Chuckles reach my ears. “As is expected of my driver. I have credits riding on you.”
I’m tempted to say he has credits riding on all the drivers. Hedging his bets. It just so happens he has more riding on me. Betting is encouraged during the races. I’ve heard rumors the credits generated from nights at the Gathering actually fund Mob operations more than the protection credits taken from the citizens of Terra One monthly. Plus the races are the chief source of entertainment around here. Televised and commentated. All the top families of the Bitterblade Mob have a stable of racers. For some the races are their main source of income.
I suffer through another round of silence until the boss says, “As you well know, Zamara has reached her majority.”
I grimace, understanding where this meeting is actually going. The boss’s daughter is finally old enough to make her own decisions. This thought scares the motor oil out of me. “My sincerest congratulations, sir. Please extend my deepest regret at not having been able to attend her eighteenth birthday.”
Another chuckle. “You were busy winning that downhill at Mount Giga against Star. What a grand race. You two fought like feral cats.” I imagine him licking his front teeth. The memory of the race ignites my insides like a spark plug. I still haven’t forgiven Star for scratching my baby in her attempt to pass me at Suicide Curve. If she wasn’t the Underboss’s daughter, I would have slit her throat already. The boss’s second-in-command would not approve of the murder of his child, no matter how much she tests his patience. “That victory paid for the entire overpriced party. I cannot complain.”
Still I continue to wait for the inevitable. Knowing Zamara, there’s one thing she’d ask dear ol’ dad for on her birthday. I grit my teeth until the enamel squeaks. Unfortunately for me, the boss doesn’t stretch out my torment longer than he has to.
“As you know,” he begins as if it pains him to even bring up the topic. “Zamara has been following your career closely. That girl has an unhealthy attachment to you.” I hear the headshake that usually accompanies conversations involving the Mob’s precious first daughter. “She wants to join you as navigator for this year’s Impulse Cup.” My mouth opens to respond, but I quickly close it
