Three. Two. One…

The naked hologram on my dash dropped her arms, and I mashed the accelerator to the floor.

Six cylinders sprung to life, as hungry pistons devouring sprays of high-octane petrol infused with cold methanol. Spent aldehydes and carbon blasted through exhaust valves and into the polished manifold, spinning a turbocharger turbine the size of a ramen bowl. The waste energy from exhaust gasses forced horsepower-doubling compression into the cylinders before roaring out through the downpipe and into the street.

My stomach wrenched as raw horsepower tried to push me through my seat.

By the time my car's mechanical music hit its straight-piped crescendo, I was flying down Concourse Frontage Road at a hundred and fifteen miles per hour. Through the window to my right, the sparsely-lit ghetto of the Quarters District zoomed by. Over my left shoulder, a hundred-year-old abandoned skyport surrounded by heat-scorched North American wilderness.

"Primo launch, Jakob," came the voice of Danny, piped directly into my brain through my neurocom, "but watch out for Caio. He's torquing hard to the right. Bet he loses it in turn six."

"Gotcha," I replied, too focused on trail braking through the first corner to think that far ahead.

Danny — quiet co-worker by day, street technician by night — was on to something, though. When Caio's car accelerated out of the turn, his line turned to slop. Punching the throttle must have shifted weight off his driver's side wheel, throwing off his balance. If that happened in turn six, the first hairpin in this circuit, it probably would understeer the Brazilian's car right off the track.

"His corner weights are all jacked up. Suspension tuning FTW," I mumbled, flicking the paddle shifter and exiting the turn behind him.

Too bad. I'd liked to have beaten Caio on technique instead of tuning. The Rio native was always a funny little chungus in the staging area, and I preferred racers who were quick with a joke to the ones that talked trash nonstop. Now, I had to avoid being next to him when his Akira Moonray inevitably went apeshit into a wall.

I blinked it out of my mind. The nighttime neon and holographic halos of Hope Mega streaked across the sky around us, but all I could see was Caio's damn brake lights.

At least I didn't have to worry about the other four cars in this race — we'd left them dogging in our rear cams during the first straightaway through the Quarters. But Caio's PAC-era coupe was too quick out of the turns for me to overtake him.

"Danny," I com'd, "how shitty is it that I'm hoping he wraps that loud-ass soy burner around a bollard?"

Danny chuckled through my neurocom. "Pretty shitty. But five coins is five coins. One of which is mine."

"Pft. I didn't forget," I replied, wondering for the hundredth time why anyone would bet on another man's driving.

I mean, I was good behind the wheel, but nobody is good enough to put your own scrip in their hands. Especially a whole coin. That's like three months wages for Danny.

I blinked, gathering my focus as we raced toward corner four. Downshift.

A little left-foot braking kept me tight alongside the Moonray — and gave the streaming fans at home an exhibition of brake biasing that made Caio's off-platform turn look like a sea cow trying to pirouette.

"Hairpin coming up soon," Danny cut in after my smooth glide out of the apex. "He has to know what's up by now. If he panics and tries late braking to compensate…"

"Yup. I don't want to be on his outside when he lets off."

Honestly, I didn't want to be anywhere near Caio's car for that turn. Inside, outside, any side. I knew what he had to be thinking, and none if it would lead to good decision making.

If he went into the hairpin smoothly to keep his platform level and hold traction, I'd overtake and he'd be done. But if he went in hard the way he's been doing, he'd never be able to keep his front tires loaded enough to stay on the course.

With crypto on the line, he'd probably risk everything rather than hand the checker over to me.

Personally, I loved my car too much for that kind of risk. When you wheel a rare classic from a make that hasn't existed in a hundred years, you don't cross your fingers on corners and wish for the best.

You tune your damn suspension so you don't have to wish.

Or you pay Danny to do it.

I hit another straightaway, this one taking me down from the elevated highway to the Quarters District's abandoned streets. Turn six broke left a few meters after the original Hope Immigration Project headquarters.

"Two klicks 'til you hit turn six," Danny com'd.

I chuckled. "You writing a cowboy song, bro?"

"Hey, keep it tight…hold up." Danny paused. "Lotta chatter on the police channel."

Weird. The race sponsors always paid for HMPD to block off the courses for these night runs. Normally, the badgers just sat at the intersections downing NuTrio bars and earning bonus pay.

"Oh skitz!" Danny continued, "Some gangers just zeroed a bunch of badgers at one of the roadblocks!"

He didn't need to tell me which roadblock. Just as turn six came into view, I caught sight of a HMPD Lowboy cruiser with a lot more fire pouring out of its windows than would be considered normal.

I swallowed a painful lump in my throat. "Fuck, Danny…I'm coming into the corner hot. What am I supposed to do?"

"Stop, fragwit!" Danny's voice exploded in my head. "Turn the fuck around!"

Against all of my racing instincts, I braked, swinging the ass end of my car around to put the burning cruiser behind me.

"Com the other drivers, Danny! Make sure they don't plow into me!"

Caio and I had left them behind, but they would still be coming.

Shit. What happened to Caio?

My eyes snapped to the rear monitors just as the Brazilian's tofu-burner skidded sideways into turn six. Just like I called it, he oversteered, but somehow managed to bring it to a stop before nailing the burning Lowboy.

A spark of relief kicked up in my stomach, but burned out just as fast when Caio's Moonray burst into flames.

"Engine fire in Caio's Moonray, Danny…"

Caio jumped from the car right away, but three muscly goons in black leather stepped from the shadows and emptied their handguns into his chest. Pretty sure he was dead before he hit the ground.

"Oh, shit!" I gasped, simultaneously smashing the accelerator flat to the floor.

No time to appreciate the harmonics of a finely-tuned motor on this launch. I burned my tires practically to the rims, and spent a hell of a lot more time looking behind me than I would normally at a start line.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

The huge black cloud of burned rubber I'd left wasn't enough to mask my escape. One by one, a quartet of chromed-out motorcycles broke through the smoke, roaring toward me like my car was standing still.

"They're on bikes, Danny!" I com'd. "They're chasing me! What the fuck, bro? Seriously!"

I clicked through gears as fast as the engine would hit redline. The four bikes still closed in, the roar of their torquey ICE engines pouring in through my open windows.

"Who's chasing you?" my tech came back. Even with his voice transmitted digitally and streamed directly into my brain, I could hear his own panic seeping through.

"Those fuckin' ganger trash that live in the Quarters," I replied. "And their bikes are fast as hell!"

As if illustrating my point, one of the bikers took a whack at my rear quarter panel with a studded club. I cringed at the sound of carbon fiber shattering and instinctively yanked the wheel to avoid another hit. The riders swerved like pros to avoid my maneuver.

"Holy shit, a whole precinct just rolled up here," Danny added. "There's badges headed your way, too, but it sounds like these gangers are going after checkpoints all along the course."

I side-eyed a bike pulling alongside my right and braked, juking the wheel to bluff an attempt at sideswiping him. The rider didn't let up, probably knowing that I'd avoid smashing the hell out of my most prized possession.

I cursed, blinking sweat out of my eyes before noticing oncoming headlights. For sure, one of the other racers, speeding toward us like he had no clue what was going down. The driver figured it out quick, though, and stood on his brakes. The souped-up old Eurogen hatchback fishtailed into a slide.

I managed to avoid his rear bumper by a few inches, but the rider beside me slammed him at full speed and went ballistic over the Eurogen's roof. Hopefully the racer was alright — the ganger trash was definitely a smear on the road.

"Eat that!" I yelled, letting off the accelerator.

More cars would be behind the hatch, oblivious to chaos roaring up the highway from street level. Or worse…

I locked my brakes. More headlights came around the winding elevated road, but they were singles. Three of them, and shaking from the roar of oversized motorcycle engines.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me," I muttered.

That Eurogen hatch hadn't been blindly continuing the race — he'd been running from his own set of bloodthirsty bikers. Now they were bearing down on me, and I was completely boxed in by the three still on my ass.

It wasn't like I could drive through their heavy-ass bikes with a car made mostly of carbon fiber and aluminum. It'd be crushed like a HeadRush can with me inside, flailing around like an idiot.

Nothing to do but stay put and wait for the badgers to show up and earn their lousy overtime pay.

"I'm about to die," I com'd Danny. "So, tell me again why the hell we're not allowed to carry hot steel on these races?"

"Chill, man," he replied. "PD is close. Just…lock yourself in or something."

I chuckled in spite of the six inked-up and angry goons dismounting their bikes around my priceless 2053 Nippon Suprema GT.

Priceless. Maybe Caio's mistake was getting out of his car. They might not shoot me if it meant hurting their prize.

I grabbed the strap on my five-point harness and yanked it tight.

"Get the fuck out!" one of the goons yelled, waving a huge, silver revolver over his head.

Swallowing the resulting throat lump was like choking on sand.

"Blow me!" I yelled through the window. "You'll have to shoot me. And good luck getting my blood out of the ostrich leather."

A couple of the bikers laughed, but it didn't really feel like my joke landed. They were still circling like sharks, weapons in hand. The bastards were close enough now that I could make out the patches on their leathers, a few flat-black cybernetic limbs, and tattoos all over their faces.

I fought to keep my breathing level. I had one chance, according to Danny. Stall until the badges showed up.

And that wouldn't happen if I passed out.

"Alright, corpo-prick," the nearest biker continued. "Lemme help you."

He lunged both arms through the window and grabbed at my harness.

A numb-nuts mistake.

My pair of wetgear arms were top-shelf tech, not like the refurb, spray-painted shit and organic meat he was sending my way. And with my harness practically fusing my torso to the Suprema, I had a lot of leverage.

Wrestling with his busy hands took a quick second, but I managed to lock his wetgear limb under my armpit. A quick scissor movement with my free hand did the rest, snapping his fiber bundles backward at the elbow.

The scumbag howled and pulled away, but I held tight. While he grappled with trying to free his busted cybernetic arm, I took hold of his organic hand and squeezed. This time, he squealed like a castrati.

When I released, his hand looked like a NuFoods lab experiment gone tits up. Biker bolognese ala Jakob. I unclenched my armpit and let him fall backward out of my personal space.

Scanning my surroundings, I counted five other leather dirtbags jumping to join in. Two of them nearly knocked themselves unconscious trying to dive in through the passenger window, and a third took a flying leap onto my hood.

He was the biggest problem. More specifically, the huge revolver he was pointing through the windshield was the biggest problem.

"Get the fuck out now!" he growled, thumbing back the hammer.

I raised my hands and nodded, knowing that there wasn't much more stalling to be done. Though I did make a conscious effort to unlatch my five-point harness as slowly as possible before opening the door.

Once out of my car, I still had four guns trained on my head — one biker was too busy dragging his sobbing, mutilated buddy away from the scene to make it a hard five.

"You really wanna die for a car?" the one with the revolver growled, shoving the muzzle into my chest.

"Why not?" I said, grinning. "You're about to."

A few more laughs came from behind me, but Mister Revolver's sense of humor must have run out. In one swift movement, he flipped the hot steel in his hand and cold-cocked me across the cheek with the grip.

I dropped like a sack of bolts, the hazy headlights and neon skyline melting into a spinning blur.

"Real fuckin' comedian, here," the biker said, spitting on my chest. Turning to his greasy buddy, he added, "Jericho, hack the ride. Clock's ticking, brother!"

Struggling to my knees, I tried to snag the scumbag sliding into my Suprema. I missed, landing face-first on the rough pavement.

Revolver was kind enough to roll me back over with a jab from his synthleather boot.

"Got a closing joke, comedian?" he said, pointing the handgun at my face.

"Sure do." I coughed, working my aching jaw into the most wise-ass grin I could manage. "Chirp, chirp."

The biker smirked. "Who 'dis?"

"Heywood."

"Heywood, who?"

A chorus of submachinegun fire erupted, filling swirling darkness with fire and smoke. I flinched against the flashes just in time to avoid a spray of warm blood in my eyes.

Revolver's corpse collapsed on my chest, forcing my already shallow breath back out of my lungs. I shoved him off, rolled over, and puked into the puddle of brains he'd left on the pavement.

"Heywood you look at that," I said, wiping my mouth. "The badgers made it in time, you piece of shit biker trash."

I laughed, since no one else was around to. Revolver's buddy Jericho was zeroed, hanging bloody over the Suprema's open door. No sign of the others. Just a ring in my ears and the smell of iron in my nose.

"Suspects down!" a gravely voice rang out from the other side of my Suprema.

Shouts for medivac and perimeter security followed, along with enough running bootsteps to shake the street. A pair of HMPD officers in patrol armor helped me stand up.

"You alright, sir?" one asked, wiping blood and dirt from my fire suit. "Medicos are on the way. Just hold tight."

"I'm good," I said, pushing away the officer's grabby arm so I could get a look at my car.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" I shouted, running my fingers over a string of fresh bullet holes in the quarter panel. "You smoothbrains pocked my ride!"

The officers just curled their lips, while their cohorts buzzed around the scene, kicking away the downed bikers' weapons and checking their bodies.

"Jakob?" Danny's familiar voice cut through the ringing in my ears.

"Yo."

"You alright? What's goin' on out there?"

"Dirtbag knocked out my teeth. And these fragwit badgers shot the Suprema full of holes. Nothing special."

I climbed into my car, firing the engine to life with a MiFi signal. "She still purrs, though."

Danny chuckled. "Damn, you're one lucky SOB."

"I feel lucky," I said, spitting a wad of dried blood on the pavement before shutting the driver's door. "I'm gonna get HMPD to escort me back to the staging area. We'll give the girl a quick once over and head back to the garage. I need sleep."

"Wilco," Danny said. "I've got a bottle and some notes waiting for you."

"Notes?"

"Yeah, on your stand-up. 'Heywood'? That was a terrible joke."

I scoffed. "Right. But for the record, I was not standing up when I told it."

Two low-pitched revs from the Suprema got the nearby officers' attention. I waved back toward the start line, and two badgers hopped into a nearby black-and-white Lowboy to clear a path for me.

I followed, fighting to keep my eyes open. Thinking about the thousands of creds I couldn't claim because of a botched race didn't help.

What did wake me up was the sudden, brain-splitting whine of directed thrust motors overhead. Craning my neck out the window, I watched three GreySec ARVs — like metal hornets with room for eight heavily-armed troopers — booking toward TaoCom Skypillar. One of the seven immensely tall buildings that not only housed the prominent Global Corporations, but held up the city in the clouds that only the best of the best called home.

"Jeebs, that's N-TAC," I gasped, still com'd with Danny. "A whole platoon of 'em. Something going on at TaoCom?"

"Uh, I got more chatter here on the open comms," he replied. "PD is closing the streets around their pillar. Making room for the heavy hitters, looks like. Can't pick up N-TAC on the scanner."

I shook my head and whistled. "Someone pissed off the Chingies something fierce."

My brains were bashed in, my car was cheesed, and I had to go to work in the morning — but I still wouldn't have traded places with whatever losers were dumb enough to hit the Dragon's Lair.

I guess that was something worth drinking to.