Since this part of the road sits higher than the rest of the track, we can see the crowd go fucking nuts. Mitch is easy to spot, sitting on top of the old bleachers with Kali by his side. As soon as he sees Aaron in Hael’s Camaro, he rises to his feet. It’s hard to see his face from all the way over here, but he’s clearly pissed.

“Should’ve known my mother was involved, with all those new cars the Charter Crew’s got,” Vic murmurs, rubbing his chin. And he’s right. They’ve all got new rides to replace the ones that we ruined with the Navigator and then, later, with Oscar’s revolver.

“They made it seem as if their drug business was doing very well,” Oscar says mildly, but not like he cares. “Regardless, they’ve just made our job much easier, haven’t they?”

“Much,” Vic agrees as Hael takes us past the tunnel that leads toward the track, headlights off, our speed in the single digits. We drive the Mercedes around the side of the track, to the spot where a damaged chain-link fence meets up with the walled-off area that hides what used to be a snack bar area. There are more bleachers just above it, rusted and worn-out, riddled with holes where light shows through. “We’ll be lucky if they even let him finish the race; give yourself ten minutes and get the fuck out of there.”

Hael nods and climbs out of the car, slipping through a hole in the chain-link fence with a duffel bag full of tools. There isn’t a single person at that race who isn’t looking at Aaron as he outdrives the rest of those assholes like he was born to do it, sending the Camaro flying over the bumps and rises and crashing into the mud.

Victor gets out and hauls his ass up to the roof, rifle held loosely by his side. Oscar stays on the ground, circling the car and keeping his eye out for anyone else that might be creeping around in the bushes.

I stay with Hael’s phone, listening as Aaron whoops and curses his way around the track.

“Are you there, Bernie?” he asks, panting heavily.

“I’m here,” I say, sitting inside the Mercedes with the doors closed, so nobody can hear us talking. “You’re kicking ass out there.” I lift my head up from the phone’s screen to watch the cherry-red car outpace the others under the white glow of the lights when a text from Callum comes in.

Hael is working on Mitch’s car. Give us a warning if we need to retreat early.

I exhale, but I don’t text him back. Responses are for vital messages, not just to say okay.

“Hael is tinkering,” I tell Aaron, listening to the rapid pace of his breathing.

“Fuck yeah,” he purrs, clearly enjoying the rush of adrenaline. My nerves are fraught with tension, but I try to stay relaxed. If I got freaked-out during every risky activity we did, I would be an anxious mess. “Looks like my funereal gift to Mitch and his friends is a serious case of crushed and shattered pride.” Aaron’s laugh echoes through the phone as I watch him own the track, beating the Charter Crew at their own game.

They must be furious.

During the next lap, this little zippy Porsche comes to a screeching halt, spraying mud in the air like a fireworks display.

“What the fuck?” I murmur as I watch it back up toward the center of the track. There’s a wall of tires all the way around the inner ring but for one spot that looks like it was hit recently and just hasn’t been repaired yet. The driver uses that spot to back his car in. “Hey, Aaron, watch the white Porsche,” I say at the same time that Oscar opens my door, gray eyes cold.

“I’ve just told Hael and Callum we’re done. Aaron,” Oscar leans in toward the speaker, “get off the track now and head for the campground.”

“Roger that,” Aaron says, heading for that same road we took before, to escape from Officer Young and her ridiculous Subaru.

Our boys up the hill are telling me there are more cars coming down the campground road; tell Aaron to head for the woods instead. Cal’s text comes in at about the same time as Oscar curses under his breath, looking down at his own phone. Vic remains on the roof, rifle at the ready, watching and waiting.

“Scratch that,” I say before Oscar even gets a chance to. My heart is racing like crazy, and I feel like I can’t breathe. I’m so fucking scared right now, but I can’t let that fear control me. The situation is immediate, and dire. “Go for the woods, Aaron.”

“I hear ya, Bernie,” he grinds out, turning the Camaro so sharply that it fishtails for a moment before he regains control. “Son of a bitch.” Aaron guns the throttle and heads for a small patch of open space between the trees. It’s a tight fit, and if anyone else were driving, I’d probably be worried. But like I said, I saw Aaron navigate up the hill to Vaughn’s cabin in the pitch-black without scraping the paint of the minivan. He can do this.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t make it that far. While we’ve been barking out instructions and checking our phones, the white Porsche has reversed all the way to the other side of the center circle, turning around and then plowing through the wall of tires to get back to the track.

“Aaron, the Porsche,” I call out, but there isn’t much he can do. He’s going too fast to slow down, and the road is surrounded by fencing on the left side for a good quarter of the track before it opens to the woods. With the Porsche waiting on the right, and the other cars behind him, Aaron’s only choice is to go forward.

He guns it, but whoever’s driving the white Porsche is ready. They shoot onto the track and clip the front of the Camaro, causing it to spin in the mud, tires churning uselessly.

“Aaron!” I scream, even though I know I can’t help him from here. I watch in horror as the rear end of the Camaro slams into the fence, and the other cars swarm around it like flies to a corpse. Shit, shit, shit. I shove my way out of the car, but Victor is already cursing and hopping down from the roof. He takes off running with his rifle by his side.

“Stay here!” he commands me, but I’m not about to let Aaron be curb-stomped by Mitch’s crew.

“Bernadette,” Oscar warns when he sees that I’m about to make a break for it. I ignore him, taking off after Vic with the phone clenched in my hand, my gun bouncing against my back. I can hear Oscar’s footsteps as he curses and follows after me, grabbing onto my arm just as the window on the driver’s side of the Camaro is smashed in.

The Charter Crew converges as Aaron is yanked out of the broken window and thrown to the ground in a sea of angry fists and boots. Even from here, I can see blood.

“Let go of me, Oscar!” I snarl, trying and failing to pull from his grip. He jerks me back, wrapping an arm around my neck and effectively trapping me against him.

“Just wait,” he snaps back at me, his own heart thundering like crazy against my back. That terrifies me, feeling Oscar’s pulse race like that. He’s acting like everything’s under control, but his heart and his breathing say otherwise.

Callum appears like a specter on top of the fence. Likely he’s just climbed it. He doesn’t hesitate before rising to his feet atop the narrow metal pole. Without a second of hesitation, he lifts his rifle up and shoots one of the boys in the back of the head.

Blood spatters everywhere, showering the rest of the crew in crimson.

That gives them pause.