I count to ten, itching to put the pedal to the metal, but I stay my foot. Not yet. I can’t go yet.
Then, just when I believe the air around my GT is cool enough and I’m about to step on the gas, the passenger door yanks open.
Chapter Seventeen
ZAMARA JUMPS into the passenger seat in tight jeans stuffed into biker boots and a tattered white T-shirt. Her mass of waves is pulled away from her face in a ponytail. She throws her duffel into the back seat and slams the door. Then she buckles herself in.
“I knew you’d wait. With the GT’s Cold Air Intake, you need the other drivers to leave so the air around the grid will cool down since a car’s exhaust is warm to hot. With cooler air entering the engine, you’d increase the V8’s efficiency and performance.” She grins, ignoring my shock from the truth of her words. She picked out my plan like a perp in a lineup. “Is that good enough to be your navigator?”
“No,” I sputter.
“You better get going or we’ll never make it to the checkpoint before the last five,” she says as if I hadn’t said a word.
Blinking incredulously at her self-assurance, I shift gears and stomp on the accelerator. The GT fishtails, then lunges forward like a mustang released from its pen. The back end feels heavier than usual for some reason. I hadn’t felt it until now. The thought is quickly drowned out by the engine’s roar of appreciation as I shift to third, then fourth. My anger at Zamara’s underhandedness bubbles over as the first taillights come into view. I reach up and press two fingers on my earpiece.
“Mac, I have a stowaway,” I say in a clipped tone. “Have Brody send a helicopter to the check—”
Quick as the lightning flashing above us, Zamara yanks my earpiece out of my earlobe, opens her window, and chucks it out before closing the window again. She crosses her arms over her chest in satisfaction.
“What the fuck did you do that for?” I growl at her, keeping both hands on the steering wheel because if I don’t, I’m pretty sure I’ll reach out and strangle her.
“RC, I don’t care that some psycho killer is after you.” From my periphery I see her pout. “My world is dangerous. I’ve accepted that long ago. I can take care of myself. Right now you need the best navigator out there. You may not have been paying attention during our meetings, but I helped put together a majority of your team’s plan for this year’s race. I’m here to help you. Suck it up!”
I understand what she’s saying. I couldn’t have picked a better navigator to help me win the Impulse Cup. But how am I supposed to concentrate on winning and finding this killer if I have to worry about the boss’s daughter? Unfortunately, that’s not the reason for my current anger. A flash several yards ahead scatters the cars in all directions. The first lightning bolt has made landfall. I swerve to avoid an FD RX-7 in the middle of a barrel roll after colliding with a GTS. The Impulse Cup claims its first casualty. Shifting to a lower gear, I cruise for the few seconds I need to bite Zamara’s face off.
“If you’re such a good navigator,” I say in the harshest voice I can manage, “then you should know that throwing away my earpiece means I’m blind to my eyes in the sky.” I point at the ceiling of my GT, then at three lightning strikes happening one after the other a couple miles away. Zamara pales. “Without Mac’s warnings, I won’t know what carnage to dodge and when the next possible strike will come down.”
“RC, I…,” she blubbers. “I… I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head. “You just increased the danger to your life by 100 percent, I hope you know that.”
“I said I was sorry!” She screams when I pull on the handbrake and twist the wheel all the way to the right, forcing my GT into a spin to avoid two cars jockeying for position. Once the nose is facing in the right direction again, I gun the engine, kicking up a cloud of dust. Because of the lightning, nothing survives on the flats. It’s all packed dirt and cracked stretches of land.
As if someone is aiming from up above, a rod of lightning makes contact with the Charger I recognize from the garage that came in for new spark plugs. The driver barely manages to keep the massive beast on course. How he qualified is beyond me.
Biting my lower lip, I make my decision. I leave one hand on the wheel and grab Zamara’s arm. I squeeze hard enough that she winces.
“Listen to me,” I say before she can protest or yank away. “Binoculars in the glove compartment.” I’m forced to let go by a strike that lands too close for comfort. I swerve once again, almost grinding against a black Impreza. If I want to make it to the checkpoint in one piece, I need to concentrate.
Zamara fumbles with the binoculars. “What do you want me to do with this?”
I would roll my eyes if I had the luxury to be sarcastic. “Act as my eyes. I need you to watch out for anything I need to avoid. I need enough reaction time so we don’t crash. See that dust cloud?”
She brings the binoculars to her eyes and nods.
“That’s the middle of the pack. We need to get there.” I don’t elaborate on the reason why. Zamara should know that being at the back with the
