The mechanic helps me scoot up, then steps back to give Mac room to work. “What GT-R?”
“After I escaped from Bedlam’s prison, a black GT-R came out of nowhere,” I explain as Mac begins the binding. I want to shake my head, but the fear that I may vomit all over Screw’s sheets stops me. “I think it was the killer. But I’m still alive, so I can’t be 100 percent.”
“Bedlam imprisoned you?” Screw’s fist makes friends with the wall.
Mac pulls the gauze tight. “Wrench is missing.”
“Fuck!” I punch Mac’s shoulder. “I thought Brody gave him a security detail? And why the hell are you pulling so hard?”
“Calm down. The tighter the bandage, the faster your ribs will heal,” he says, stone-faced. “They say he ditched his detail in the middle of the night. Now no one can find him.”
“Does needing to breathe count?” I ask in response to his statement about my bandages; then the meaning behind his next statement sinks in. “Dammit, Wrench! How stupid can you get? He won’t survive on his own out there.”
“If you can try not to breathe, then all the better. You’re gonna like it even more when I start stitching up the gash on your neck.” He takes out a hypodermic and a small bottle of what I assume is a local anesthetic.
“So that’s where I’m bleeding from.” With Screw’s help, I resettle onto my back.
Mac taps at a syringe to let any air bubbles out, then plunges the needle into the wound on my neck. I grimace but don’t move. The last thing I need is a broken needle in my bloodstream. The binding on my ribs does help ease most of the pain. Soon a pulling on my neck starts. Screw leaves the room, nostrils flaring.
“Make sure to calm him down when you’re done here.” I glance at the empty space that once contained Screw’s bulk. “I think he doesn’t like the fact that Bedlam tried to play hero.”
“Do you feel sick in any way?” Mac asks.
“Sick like I want to throw up?”
He dips his chin once, all his concentration on stitching up my wound.
“Then yes.”
“You have a concussion. You can’t go to sleep, no matter what.” Mac snips the last of the thread when he’s done.
I lift my head to allow him to wrap gauze around my neck. “Why aren’t you asking about Bedlam imprisoning me?”
“Because it’s what I would have done.” Mac brushes away my hair to examine the cut on my head. I stare at him incredulously. “He called me after he locked you in. To be honest, I was hoping you wouldn’t find a way out. Now that you did, look what happened?”
“Mac!” My eyes are wide. “You can’t be serious.” But the resolution on his face says it all. So I shift my gaze to the ceiling and imagine the face I want to punch in. “So you and Bedlam were in cahoots.”
“No one says ‘cahoots’ anymore.”
“I know you’re all worried.” Brody probably filled them in on the situation. “But this shit just got personal for me.”
Mac sighed, shaking his head.
I breathe in slowly. “Will you call and check on him?”
“Bedlam?” His eyebrows rise to meet his hairline. “What the hell did you do?”
“I stabbed him.”
His lips form an O.
“How do you think I was able to get out of there?”
Reconstructing a serious expression, Mac says, “Is there any way I can stop you—”
“I’m racing in the Impulse Cup, Mac,” I cut him off.
“But—”
I meet him stare for stare. “If I’m really the target, then I need to stay visible. I will not stand for anyone else dying because of me.”
“RC….”
“I’m taking a page from Bedlam’s crazy book and hunting this bastard down.” Famous last words as I grin at Mac. No one is threatening me anymore. I’m bringing the pain to whoever it is that’s after me.
Chapter Sixteen
FOGHORNS BLARE. Camera drones fly overhead. Fireworks pop, pop, pop in the sky. In the background, the familiar thumping beats of techno saturate the already-buzzing air. Fifty cars qualified for this year’s Impulse Cup, all arranged in neat rows in front of a massive arch with the words Starting Line flashing on a screen.
Instead of the usual excitement that comes with the biggest racing event of the year, a strange pall hangs in the air. The rally girls don’t seem into their gyrating. The motor heads stand around whispering with each other. And the hangers-on continually scan the crowd as if at any second the boogeyman will jump out and slash their throats. The spectators in the stands cheer with each car that arrives, but it’s not like the roar of previous years. Even the usually cheerful commentators are down a level in their boisterous enthusiasm. They still announce the names of the newcomers and explain the attributes of their cars, but their lewd comments and snarky remarks are at a minimum. I sort of miss one of them hitting on me. None of that happened when I arrived.
Arms crossed over my still-aching chest, I lean against my GT500. The humidity is crushing my lungs and pulling moisture from my pores. I miss the weight of my knives, but my bruised ribs won’t allow them. The stitches hidden beneath a bandage on my neck itch. I really want to claw at them.
With an annoyed huff, I look over the grid to distract myself. The position of the drivers at the starting line is determined via least amount of points. Meaning, we of the top ten, now six, are at the back to give the rest of the pack a fighting chance. Makes things interesting in terms of the betting too. It’s always been this way. Consider it a handicap. I don’t mind. For the first stage, it’s a straight shot through the Electric Flats to the first checkpoint.
My gaze shifts skyward.
The organizers couldn’t have planned things better. Dark clouds gather as if observing the festivities below, lightning already arching within them. Once the
