After getting his membership card, Steve Owen didn't specifically look for Simon Westeros and Harry. Since they didn't want to acknowledge him, they must have their own reasons. Now that he was a member here, he figured he would run into them again sooner or later, so there was no rush to reconnect.
After wandering around outside for a while, he had a good grasp of the area. Owen was considering whether to look for Monica—she was probably still on leave, just like him.
Just as he took out his phone, ready to make a call, his phone rang first.
"Ring ring ring~~~"
Owen glanced at the screen—it was ASH. It was probably about visiting the cemetery to pay respects to Morris and the others. They had agreed to go together after handling their own affairs.
After setting a time for tomorrow to visit the cemetery, Owen hung up, but before he could put his phone away, it rang again.
This time, the call was from someone named Max. Owen chuckled—it looked like someone was about to send money his way again.
Los Angeles was the underground racing capital of the U.S., frequently hosting all kinds of illegal street races. The drivers here were among the best.
Aside from the top-tier racers, there was another prominent group in this circle: the rich kids.
America had plenty of wealthy young men who loved racing and chasing women. These rich kids had money, flashy cars, and they spent big. It was easy for them to make a name for themselves in this scene.
Max, the caller, was one of them. His family was in finance, with business ventures on Wall Street. Their operations were massive. Yet, Max himself was aimless—spending his days in L.A. racing and chasing women.
Owen answered the call, and sure enough, he heard an impatient young voice on the other end.
"Boss, are you coming to the race tonight? I want you to drive for me—same deal as always, two grand for you. If you win, you keep all the prize money. If you lose, I cover the cost."
Owen immediately picked up on Max's tone—it was clear the guy had made another bet, probably against another rich kid. Since this was the underground racing scene, their bets were naturally settled through races.
But these rich kids weren't stupid. They knew their own limits—they were just casual drivers looking for fun and attention. When it came to actual races, they preferred to hire skilled drivers to represent them.
Max was one of the rich kids who often sought out Owen. Ever since Owen won a race for him, Max had been convinced of his skills.
Every time they met, Max would call him "Boss," and Owen had practically become his go-to driver. Whenever a race was involved, Max would turn to Owen to back him up. And Owen had never let him down.
Max was generous, too—each race came with a $2,000 fee for Owen, and if he won, the entire prize money was his. Max only cared about his reputation.
Typically, the prize pool for a race ranged from $2,000 to $3,000 per driver, with four racers in total. That meant if Owen won, he could pocket at least $8,000—a significant sum.
If he lost, Max covered the loss. It was a very fair deal.
"Okay, what's the format this time?" Owen asked.
He was referring to the type of race. Unlike official racing events, underground races only had two main formats: drag races and circuit races. Drag races were quarter-mile straight-line sprints, testing acceleration and top speed.
Circuit races, on the other hand, were held on closed loops with fixed routes. The goal was to complete the circuit in the shortest time. These races were a bit more technical and required both skill and a well-tuned car.
"This time, it's muscle cars, but it's a circuit race," Max said.
Owen raised an eyebrow in interest. Muscle cars were usually used for drag racing due to their high horsepower and powerful acceleration. Racing them on a circuit was unusual—he wondered whose idea it was. Still, it didn't really matter to him.
"What car are you using?"
"My only muscle car is a Camaro. Should I get a different one?"
"No need. The Camaro is fine."
Owen figured it had to be the Camaro. He had driven all six of Max's cars before, and only one of them was a muscle car—the Camaro. The other five were standard sports cars.
This arrangement actually saved time. He was already familiar with the Camaro, and switching to a different car last-minute might cause unnecessary issues.
"Bring the car to ** Street. I need to get familiar with it before the race tonight."
"Okay."
After Owen sent his location, it wasn't long before one of Max's bodyguards arrived, driving the Camaro.
The bodyguard recognized Owen and simply tossed him the keys before walking away.
Owen got into the yellow Camaro—this was the same model as Bumblebee from Transformers, looking just as fierce and powerful in real life.
Under the hood was a 6.5L V8 engine, capable of 353 horsepower. A single press on the gas pedal sent a deep, throaty roar from the engine—it was a machine built for raw power, every man's dream.
But Owen hadn't just asked for the car to get familiar with it—he had another idea. He wanted to invite Monica to the race as his date.
In the past, he always went to races with Carlos. For drivers at their level, finding a female companion was never a problem. Even if they arrived alone, plenty of women at these events would be eager to hop into their cars.
And if they happened to win, well—congratulations. The car-loving girls often treated themselves as part of the reward.
But this time, Owen suddenly felt like taking Monica with him.
He dialed her number, and she picked up quickly.
"Hey, sweetheart. What are you up to?"
"Nothing much. I'm with Becky right now..."
"Becky? You mean the 'Dumb Sweet Chick'?"
"Hehe, so that's what you guys call her? Actually, that nickname fits her pretty well! Haha, 'Dumb Sweet Chick'—I think I'll start calling her that too!"
Owen rubbed his forehead. Becky was definitely going to hate him for this—he was pretty sure he was the one who started spreading that nickname.
Through the phone, he could hear Becky protesting and playfully wrestling with Monica. Monica was laughing while mock-pleading for mercy, but Becky wasn't letting up.
Owen suddenly thought of something. "Monica, doesn't Becky... oh, I mean, doesn't she have work?"
He wasn't working because Jack Bauer hadn't reinstated him yet. Monica was off because all of CTU's Alpha Team was on leave. But Becky—Owen distinctly remembered that she had only taken a few days off.
Monica sounded amused. "She got fired. Haha! NSA sent her a termination email—just like that!"
"Fired?" Owen was about to ask why, but then Becky's voice came through the phone.
"It's all because of you! And you're laughing about it?! That's how you treat your savior, Monica Weiss? I'm going to fight you!"
Owen was confused. Fired just for taking a few days off? Was NSA really that strict? Weren't they worried about the labor department getting involved? He had seen Becky's skills firsthand—someone with her expertise getting fired so easily?
Then, a thought struck him.
"Becky... you didn't actually request leave, did you?"
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