The weight of Harrison's words was a physical thing, pressing down on my shoulders as I stood in the silent, hidden garage. Lead driver. The Silver Run. The terms echoed, grandiose and terrifying. Julian's scoff of disbelief was a punctuation mark to my own internal panic.
"This is insanity," Julian reiterated, running a hand over the scarred carbon fiber of his Porsche. "Sending a boy to do a man's work. That shipment is worth millions. It's the last batch of pre-ban ECU components and synthetic racing fuel. If we lose it, the club is crippled."
"If we don't secure it, Internal Affairs will," Harrison countered, his voice like grinding stones. "They will reverse-engineer the components, learn our capabilities, and build counters to every trick we have. This isn't just about speed anymore, Julian. It's about survival. And survivors need to be unpredictable."
His eyes, those twin blue lasers, burned into me. "Kaito is an unknown variable. IA has profiles on all of you. They know how Chloe drifts, how you prioritize aerodynamics, how Leo relies on raw power. They have no data on him. Or on his car."
His car. The Supra.
The reality of it crashed over me. I was going to drive her. For real. Not in daydreams, not in a simulator, but on a live run, with real consequences.
"The run is in 48 hours," Harrison continued, handing me a data-slate. "Study the route. The pickup is at a decommissioned orbital launch platform in the Mojave. The delivery is here, to a new safe house. IA will be watching every known route. You'll have to find a new one."
Chloe stepped forward, her gaze analytical. "I'll ride shotgun with him. He knows the car, but he doesn't know the desert. Not like I do."
A flicker of relief washed through me. I wouldn't be alone.
Julian threw his hands up. "Fine. Get yourselves killed. But my car stays here. I'm not risking it on a suicide mission led by a child." He stormed off, the sound of his polished shoes echoing his disdain.
Harrison watched him go, then looked back at me. "The clock is ticking, boy. Go wake up your ghost."
---
The journey back to my compromised warehouse was fraught with a new kind of paranoia. Every flicker of light, every distant siren, felt like a prelude to an IA raid. I parked the battered Levin a mile away and approached on foot, moving through shadows like a thief.
The door was still broken from the Enviro-Police visit. I slipped inside, the familiar scent of dust and hope filling my lungs. I stood before the Supra, the tarp looking like a shroud.
"Okay, girl," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Show time."
For the next 36 hours, I didn't sleep. I lived in the warehouse, fueled by caffeine and a feverish anxiety. I went over every system Harrison's data-slate had highlighted as critical for the run.
Fuel System: CHECK. I installed a high-flow fuel pump and replaced the ancient lines with braided steel.
ECU: CHECK.I plugged in the black-market, tunable ECU I'd scavenged for months, its screen glowing with potential.
Cooling: CHECK.I flushed the radiator and added a secondary oil cooler. The desert would be merciless.
Tires: CHECK.I mounted a set of semi-slick performance tires, the soft compound promising grip on the arid asphalt.
It was a final exam for a degree I'd never officially studied for. My hands, once clumsy with inexperience, now moved with a sure, practiced rhythm. This was my language. Bolts, wiring, fluid pressures. It made sense.
Chloe arrived on the eve of the run, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She did a slow walk-around the Supra, her mechanic's eyes missing nothing.
"Not bad, rookie. The alignment is a bit off on the rear left, but it'll do." She dropped the duffel bag. "Brought you some presents."
She pulled out a compact, military-grade radar detector and a signal jammer. "For their drones and speed traps." Then came two black, form-fitting racing suits. "Fire-retardant. Don't want you melting if we have a bad day." Finally, she handed me a small, metallic injector. "Adrenal-stim. For emergencies only. It'll keep you awake and sharp for six hours. The crash after is… significant."
I held the injector. It felt cold and deadly. "Have you ever used one?"
Her green eyes were serious. "Twice. I'm still here. But I wouldn't recommend it for fun."
The final hours were a blur of preparation. We studied the satellite maps of the route, identifying dry lake beds for high-speed sections and narrow canyon passes for evasive maneuvers. We programmed the coordinates into a standalone, off-grid navigation unit.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, there was nothing left to do but wait.
And start the engine.
The moment was sacred. Terrifying. Chloe stood by the open driver's side door, her arms crossed. I slid into the familiar bucket seat. The Nardi wheel felt different now. Not a toy for daydreams, but the control stick for my destiny.
I inserted the key. My hand was shaking.
I looked at Chloe. She gave me a single, sharp nod.
I turned the key.
WHIRR-CLICK-VRRROOOOOOM!
The world exploded.
The sound was not the polite hum of the Levin. It was a deep, chest-rattling roar that started in the heart of the 2JZ and erupted from the custom exhaust. The entire car shook with a primal energy, a beast shaking off decades of slumber. The tachometer needle jumped to life, settling into a loping, aggressive idle.
BOOM-POP-POP-BANG! The anti-lag system fired, shooting flames from the tailpipe and sending a wave of heat across the concrete floor.
I laughed. I couldn't help it. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated joy and terror. The ghost was awake. And it was furious.
Chloe's grin was fierce in the gloom. "Now that's a hello." She slid into the passenger seat, buckling her harness with practiced efficiency. "Let's take her for a shakedown. We need to see what she can do."
I pushed the heavy clutch in and slotted the shifter into first gear. The engagement was solid, mechanical. I eased the clutch out and applied a feather of throttle.
The Supra rolled forward, its roar muffled by the warehouse walls. We slipped out into the night, heading for the deserted industrial roads on the city's edge.
The first proper acceleration was a religious experience. I pushed the throttle halfway in second gear.
BOOST: 0.5 BAR.
The turbos spooled with a rising whistle.
BOOST: 1.0 BAR.
The kick was immediate and violent,shoving us back into our seats. The world outside the windows became a blur.
Speed: 120 KM/H.The Supra wasn't just moving; it was devouring the road.
I ran through the gears, the engine note climbing from a rumble to a scream. The steering was telepathic, the chassis responding to my slightest input. It was everything I had dreamed of and more. It was raw, connected, and alive.
"Okay, she's healthy," Chloe said, her voice raised over the symphony. "Now let's see if you are. See that long straight ahead? Floor it."
I didn't hesitate. I stamped the pedal to the metal.
BOOST: 1.5 BAR.
RPM: 7000.
Speed: 180... 200... 230 KM/H!
The wind roared. The car felt planted, stable, an arrow shot from a bow. I was no longer Kaito, the failure. I was the pilot of a legend.
I saw the corner coming up, a 90-degree right-hander. Too fast. Way too fast.
"Breathe, Kaito!" Chloe yelled. "Now brake! Trail-brake into the turn! Feel the weight transfer!"
I stomped on the brakes, downshifted, and turned in. The rear end started to slide.
DRIFT: INITIATED.
I counter-steered, my hands a blur, feeding just enough throttle to maintain the slide. We swept around the corner in a controlled, four-wheel drift, the tires singing a chorus of protest.
As we exited the corner, I straightened the wheel and powered out, the turbo spooling up again.
My heart was hammering, my palms sweaty. I'd done it.
Chloe looked at me, her expression one of grudging respect. "Not bad. You're a natural. But that was a empty road. The Silver Run won't be."
We drove back to the warehouse in a comfortable silence, the Supra's rumbling idle a contented purr. We had a working weapon. And a driver who was starting to believe.
As we turned onto the final approach to the warehouse, Chloe suddenly stiffened.
"Kaito. Stop."
I hit the brakes. "What?"
She pointed. The warehouse door, the one I'd carefully propped shut, was now slightly ajar. And from within, a faint, sweeping beam of light cut through the darkness.
Someone was inside.
My blood went cold. Had Internal Affairs found us already?
Chloe reached into her duffel and pulled out two compact stun batons, handing one to me. "Quietly."
We slipped out of the Supra, its engine ticking as it cooled. We crept to the door, our footsteps silent on the gravel. I peered through the crack.
A single figure was inside, their back to us, using a pen-light to examine the tools I'd left on the workbench. They weren't in an IA uniform. They wore a sleek, black tactical outfit.
Then, the figure turned slightly, the light catching their face.
It was Inspector Valeria Rostova.
Her wintery eyes scanned the empty space where the Supra should have been, a frown on her face. Then she spoke, her voice clear and calm in the empty warehouse.
"You can come out, Kaito. I'm not here to arrest you." She paused, her gaze seeming to find mine even through the crack in the door. "I'm here to make you an offer you can't refuse. One that will decide the fate of the Legacy Club."