The three cars roared down the road, bumper to bumper, locked in a fierce battle where no one could gain even an inch on the others.
Only during turns would the gaps widen slightly, but as soon as they hit the straights, the distances shrank again.
After a short straight, another turn approached. This time, Owen didn't use the handbrake to drift. Instead, he opted for a shift-lock drift.
As soon as he entered the turn, he dropped from fourth gear to second. The moment the car started sliding sideways, he quickly shifted up to third, all while keeping the gas pedal floored to maintain high RPMs. This way, he could instantly shift up or down as needed.
He managed to gain half a car length, but unfortunately, that small advantage was lost in the next turn when Dom caught up.
Dom wasn't an idiot, and neither was John Wick. If Owen made even the slightest mistake, not only would he fail to take the lead, but he could also lose his second-place position at any moment.
They pushed through several more turns, yet none of them could shake the others.
Owen knew this track well—after two more turns, a long straightaway was coming up. If he didn't take the lead now, he'd be screwed once they hit the straight. He had already burned through his nitrous and had nothing left to help him keep up.
But Dom and John Wick were just as familiar with the track. They knew exactly what Owen was trying to do and weren't giving him any openings.
Once they hit that straight, the race would become a showdown between the Dodge Challenger and the Mustang—Owen's Camaro would be out of the equation.
He knew it. But knowing didn't change the situation.
All three drivers had elite skills. With no major mistakes, there was little Owen could do.
Monica, meanwhile, had fully adapted to the intensity of the race. She was grinning excitedly, looking back and forth between the cars and repeatedly urging Owen to overtake them.
As the next turn approached, Owen decided to take a risk.
At their current pace, playing it safe wouldn't cut it. He needed to go all in.
As they approached the turn, he stayed unusually close to the curb, waiting for the perfect moment.
Dom's Challenger began drifting. Even with flawless control, drifting naturally pushes a car slightly away from the inner lane.
That was Owen's chance.
He floored the accelerator, and as he drifted into the turn, the inner wheels dropped into the roadside drainage ditch, locking them into place.
The move cost him some power, but it also locked his car into the tightest inside line possible.
With the gas pedal slammed down, the Camaro took the turn at the smallest angle possible.
Acceleration.
Overtake.
Drainage ditch cornering—success.
It wasn't an overly complex technique, but it was highly dangerous. The driver had to be intimately familiar with the track, the depth of the ditch, the exact placement, the car's ground clearance, and the condition of the tires.
At their insane speeds, even a slight miscalculation would mean total disaster.
But Owen had pulled it off.
Dom, naturally, wasn't about to back down and immediately fought to reclaim his lead.
And John Wick wasn't holding back either.
Though the three of them had momentarily settled into first, second, and third, there was no guarantee that order would last even a few seconds.
Sure enough, in the next turn, Dom made a small miscalculation while defending his position.
That gave John Wick's Mustang an opening.
The Mustang surged forward, pulling even with Dom's Challenger. The two cars were now side by side—there was no third place anymore.
On the dark highway, three beasts howled through the night.
Owen led the pack, constantly watching his mirrors. The moment either of them tried to overtake him, he moved to block.
This was the long straight—Owen's weakest section.
He had no choice but to control space, forcing them to stay behind. If he could just make it past this straightaway, he'd have another chance to widen the gap.
Behind him, the Challenger and Mustang swerved left and right, trying to break past, but every time Owen forced them back.
Finally, the straight was ending.
A U-turn was ahead.
Owen exhaled slowly, then focused completely.
He turned the wheel.
Let off the gas.
Lightly tapped the brakes.
The Camaro coasted into the turn, weight shifting forward. The inside wheels momentarily lost traction.
Then—countersteer.
A slight release of the gas pedal.
That allowed the tires to regain grip.
Immediately, Owen floored it again.
The car swung into a controlled drift, sliding perfectly through the U-turn.
Perfect cornering!
Behind him, the sound of screeching tires echoed. The other two cars drifted through the turn as well, their tires burning rubber on the asphalt.
Dom's skill shone through—using his inside lane advantage, he reclaimed second place.
But then—
Out of the darkness ahead, an explosion of lights appeared.
Police sirens blared.
Red and blue lights flashed, cutting through the night like a warning from the gods.
In the blink of an eye, three race cars thundered past—
Two black-and-white pursuit vehicles immediately fell in behind them, sirens wailing.
Shit. We walked right into an ambush.
These weren't just standard patrol cars.
They were high-performance police interceptors—specially tuned for high-speed chases.
The LAPD had an entire fleet of high-speed pursuit vehicles and trained officers just for taking down street racers.
With the cops on their tails, the race was instantly forgotten.
Now, the only goal was escaping.
Meanwhile, back at the starting line—also the finish line—a massive crowd was waiting eagerly to see which car would cross first.
But instead of a winner—
They got sirens.
Suddenly, from multiple intersections, over thirty police cruisers surged in, surrounding the entire area.
Within moments, the scene descended into chaos.
Nearly a hundred modified cars scattered in all directions, trying to break through the blockade.
Within minutes, the once brightly lit lot was plunged into darkness as everyone fled.
But the racers didn't know—
The cops had set up spike strips and roadblocks further ahead.
Several cars, trying to rely on sheer speed to escape, blew their tires and lost control.
Their fate served as a warning to the others.
Those who hadn't been caught yet slammed their cars into reverse, while those who couldn't escape had no choice but to surrender.
One by one, drivers were dragged out of their cars and shoved against their hoods, rough hands slapping cuffs on their wrists.
Back in the mountains, five cars—three racers, two cops—raced down the winding road.
Owen was cursing Carlos's name in his head.
That bastard always had insider info about police raids. Their races usually went uninterrupted.
But tonight?
Carlos wasn't even here.
That meant one thing—he knew about the raid in advance and stayed the hell away.
What Owen didn't know was that at this moment, Carlos was sitting in the LAPD chief's office.
His uncle, Chief Wayne Haviland, had locked him there personally.
If Carlos had so much as tried to tip anyone off, Haviland would have thrown him out of the force—family or not.
After all, this bust had been ordered by the top brass at Central Division.
Every LAPD precinct was involved.
It was the biggest street racing crackdown in Los Angeles this year.
And if anyone in his division had leaked the intel—
Chief Haviland wouldn't just lose his job.
He'd lose everything.
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