Deckard Shaw — a British black-ops assassin. Once upon a time, he single-handedly eliminated twenty agents before vanishing without a trace.
His younger brother, Owen Shaw, was an international terrorist and arms dealer.
Both men were ruthless and dangerous, but Deckard valued loyalty far more.
He and O'Neal had first met through street racing, bonding over their shared obsession with cars. For someone like Shaw, who usually worked alone, O'Neal was a rare friend.
Originally, Shaw hadn't planned to come, but O'Neal insisted this was to be his "West Coast coronation battle." Out of respect, Shaw agreed to join him.
"Dominic Toretto has quite the reputation. His Dodge Charger, after heavy mods, is a terrifying beast," O'Neal said gravely.
"Without bringing the Chiron, I doubt I'd even stand a chance against him."
To O'Neal, Dominic was already the strongest rival of his life. Only by defeating him could O'Neal cement himself as the true God of the West Coast.
If he avoided Toretto, no matter how many others he beat, his throne would forever be questioned.
"Hmph. Just nobodies," Shaw replied with disdain. He wasn't trying to flatter O'Neal — he meant it. In his eyes, O'Neal's driving skill was among the very best. If it came down to pure racing, Shaw knew he himself couldn't compete.
He didn't know Dominic personally, but O'Neal's strength he had witnessed. Every race he entered, he won. Undefeated.
The cars he'd won in bets filled his garage to bursting — easily more than a hundred.
With that kind of skill, plus an unbeatable machine like the Chiron, how could Dominic possibly win? Shaw scoffed, finding O'Neal's determination to "prove himself" almost unnecessary.
"Still… we can't underestimate him," O'Neal muttered, eyes narrowing.
Then suddenly— the roar of an engine thundered behind them. The unmistakable sound of a street racer pushing to the limit.
The two men instinctively checked the rearview mirror.
There, weaving flawlessly through heavy traffic, was… a squat, ugly minivan.
The sight was surreal. Like watching a clumsy, overweight woman perform a perfect ballet.
Ugly on the outside, but within it burned a soul of pure artistry.
And whoever was driving — this level of skill had no business being trapped inside a van.
O'Neal's eyes widened in shock. This was the first time he'd ever seen someone push a minivan to such extremes. Even he couldn't wring that kind of performance out of one. Especially not on a crowded highway.
Even Shaw was rattled. Twenty years as an agent, and never had he seen driving like this. A van, hitting racing speeds, cutting through dense traffic like it was nothing.
Hollywood itself wouldn't dare write something this absurd.
The van was closing in fast on the Chiron. Shaw glanced at the speedometer — his jaw dropped so wide a whole egg could fit.
The Bugatti was already at 150 km/h, cruising comfortably. Yet the van was catching up. Meaning… it was going even faster?!
A minivan, over 150? That shouldn't even be possible.
Anyone who's driven knows: the lighter the car, the more it floats at high speeds. Vans are among the lightweights. At 150, they'd already be twitchy and unstable. A slight touch of the wheel could send it skidding.
And yet this thing was flying past 150 without breaking stride.
"Is he trying to kill himself?" Shaw sneered. At that speed, no van could last a hundred kilometers. It would either lose control, crash, or flip. Survival? Impossible.
"The traffic's heavy here. He's going too fast," O'Neal said, contempt flashing in his eyes. Some drivers just loved showing off, thinking they were gods behind the wheel. In O'Neal's eyes, it was childish — a death wish.
Ahead, the road bent into a long, sweeping curve. Perfect. Let's see what this fool does now.
O'Neal's gaze hardened. He steered slightly inward, tightening his line, deliberately cutting off the van's chance to pass. He wasn't about to let anyone overtake him.
In O'Neal's world, there was one rule: he passes others. No one passes him.
"Heh. Try showing off in front of me? You'll die for it," O'Neal smirked coldly. Out here in this backwater stretch of highway, there were no "superstar drivers." Impossible.
He was sure the van would back off. But instead—
The driver flicked the wheel. The van snapped into a controlled drift, swinging its tail out in a perfect arc. With pinpoint precision, it threaded through the narrow gap between two cars.
Then, like a magic trick, the van swung wide around O'Neal's Bugatti, sliding cleanly past.
"What the hell!!" O'Neal's face contorted, eyes locked in disbelief at the van's tail disappearing ahead. What kind of godlike driving was this?!
He tried to catch the plate, but the van was too fast. All he could make out was the Chinese writing plastered on the back: "Building Leak Repairs."
"Oh, shit! I'm going after him!" O'Neal's face flushed green with fury.
Who the hell was that driver?
Who dared… to overtake his Chiron?!