The driver was young, almost too young to be driving in the city, kind of young. His blondish brown hair was a mess under his black cap, which read Formula 1 for Life. This did not set me at ease.
“You’re into racing?” I asked nonchalantly, as I started strapping myself in. “Formula 1?”
“Quite,” he said, touching the brim of his cap. “Oh, the cap. It was a gift from my uncle. Love F1. Currently following Hamilton, but love them all, past and present.”
“Are you sure you have a license to drive?” I asked, concerned. “How old are you?”
“In your years?”
That question alone should’ve been enough to stop my line of questioning, but no, I kept going forward. I liked to live dangerously.
“Yes, in my years,” I said, matching his tone. “You’re barely sprouting fuzz on your chin. So I’m thinking you’re barely old enough to get behind a wheel, especially the wheel of this vehicle. I don’t want Cecil blaming me for any scratches on this thing.”
“Scratches? On a LUMPS? Impossible. Do you know what LUMPS stands for?”
“Not really, no.”
“Uncle Cecil didn’t tell you?”
“Uncle…Cecil?” I asked. “He’s your uncle?”
“He’s everyone’s uncle,” the driver said with a wink. “Anyway, I thought he would’ve told you, of all people.”
“I asked him not to, but now I’m not so sure about that,” I said warily. “Cecil has a knack for giving me heart attacks when he describes the runework he installs on vehicles.”
“Do you want to know?” he asked. “It’s pretty boss.”
“Sure. Does it define the state of my body when I leave this thing?”
He laughed.
“No,” he said, caressing the dash. “It stands for: Lamborghini Urus Montague Peaches Strong edition. This baby is a tank disguised as a jet, and he named it after you.”
“I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted,” I said, shaking my head. “And you’re old enough and qualified to drive this tank-jet?”
“True, I look young, but I do all the SuNaTran automotive stress testing,” he said with a wicked grin. “I’m Ayrton, by the way, and I’m about”—he scrunched his face up making the calculations—“about ninety-five of your years old .”
He didn’t look a day over twenty.
“Right,” I said, clearly taken by surprise. “Ayrton is it…like the F1 driver?”
He nodded, and beamed with an infectious smile.
“Where to, sir?”
“Don’t ‘sir’ me,” I said with a smile. “You’re old enough to be my dad. The name is Simon, or call me Strong. We’re going to the Hellfire Club. Do you know where that is?”
“Of course, Strong, sir,” Ayrton said with a smile in return. “Please finish strapping in.”
I pulled the five-point harness over my body and locked it in place. He started the engine with a roar, and basked in the purr and rumble of runically enhanced Italian engineering. I took a moment to sit in the rumble with him. I was liking him more by the second.
“Now that is an engine,” I said. “Never get tired of that sound.”
“Agreed, sir,” Ayrton said with a nod, pulling his cap down a little lower over his head. “Are you ready?”
“Ready? For what?”
“There seem to be several vehicles strategically placed at our rear,” Ayrton answered, without looking back. “I’m going to assume you want me to lose them?”
I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw three large, black sedans parked about a block way. They were driving what appeared to be ultra-enhanced 1990 Chevy Impala SS Interceptors. The black tint on the windows only added to the air of menace.
“Black Orchid?” I asked Jessikah. “Is that what they drive?”
Jessikah nodded.
“Those are Interceptors—special Black Orchid vehicles,” she said. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to lose them. They are fast and dangerous. This is a pretty vehicle, but no one escapes the Black Orchid Interceptors.”
I glanced over at Ayrton, who was wearing a smile. It was a smile I recognized, because I wore it every time I drove the Dark Goat.
“I think you’d better strap in,” I said to Jessikah. “Ayrton here may be one of the first drivers to escape the Black Orchid.”
“I highly doubt…”
“With all due respect, ma’am,” Ayrton answered with a slight smile. “This is a SuNaTran vehicle, and I’m the best driver SuNaTran has. We’ll lose them. Please strap in.”
Jessikah strapped in and Ayrton crushed the gas.
SEVENTEEN
Italian engineering, unlike American muscle, believes an automobile should get from point A to point B in the shortest time mechanically possible, all while looking good doing it. American muscle is fast and powerful. The Dark Goat was a monster on the road, but this LUMPS was about as close to sitting in a rocket car as I wanted to get.
The Black Orchid Interceptors never stood a chance.
Ayrton shot down 1st Avenue and flipped a series of switches, which caused the LUMPS to drop down low on its chassis, lowering its center of gravity.
“Hydraulics?” I barely managed over the roar of the engine. “This thing has hydraulics?”
“Yes, sir,” Ayrton said. “If we don’t lower the COG, I can’t do things like this.”
He pulled the steering wheel hard to one side while simultaneously using the emergency brake. The LUMPS pulled a tight one-eighty turn and Ayrton nosed into the entrance to the FDR Drive. He released the brake and stepped on the gas in one practiced motion as we put even more distance between us and the Black Orchid.
Jessikah looked behind us in shock.
The Interceptors appeared to be standing still as we accelerated. I gripped the door handle tight enough to turn my knuckles white. Ayrton glanced at me and laughed.
“Eyes on the road,” I said, a little louder than I intended. “I don’t want to end up a mangled, flaming wreck because you’re distracted.”
“Yes, sir,” Ayrton answered, weaving through afternoon traffic. “Don’t worry, I never get distracted.”
I looked behind us, expecting to see the team of Interceptors, but the Black Orchid was gone.
“How fast is this thing?”
“Fast enough,” Ayrton said. “Uncle Cecil made some ‘modifications’ to the engine for the LUMPS edition.”
“Modifications? What?
