Chapter 57: The Race
"Simon Lewis."
Someone recognized him the moment he stepped out of the Mustang.
Simon looked at the man. "Dino Brewster. Been a while."
He looked past Dino at the car behind him. "Saleen S7. Nice."
"I just got a new car too," Simon said. "Want to run?"
Dino didn't answer directly. "What are you doing here?"
Simon looked around at the other drivers. "Racing. Same as everyone else." He addressed the group. "Anyone want to take a challenge?"
The drivers weren't happy about the question.
Dino consulted with the others, then spoke for them. "We'll race. But on our terms."
"What terms?" Simon said.
"No quarter-mile. From here to the south exit, turn around, come back. First one back wins."
Simon looked south. Straight-line distance to the exit was at least three miles, with multiple narrow sections marked off by cones and sandbags — some gaps barely two car widths. Going through those sections was faster but extremely technical. Going around the outside added at least a mile but gave clear lanes.
The outside route favored raw power — which favored the supercars.
The inside route favored precision driving.
"Fine," Simon said. "But since you set the rules, I set the stakes."
Dino checked with the group. "Whatever the number, we're in."
"Two hundred thousand per person," Simon said.
"You have that?" Dino said.
Simon patted the Mustang. "Nine hundred horsepower, custom build. If I lose, it's yours. That cover it?"
Dino looked at the car. "Yes."
"All at once or one at a time?" Simon asked.
"Your call," Dino said.
Simon counted the drivers. Twelve total including himself. "All at once. I want to be done before dinner."
The organizers set it up. Twelve cars on the starting line.
The engines came up together — a wall of sound that drowned out everything around it.
A security guard acted as starter. He raised both hands, dropped them, and crouched.
Simon shifted and hit the throttle.
The Mustang was first off the line.
The first mile to the initial turn was a straight run. Enough distance to separate field by capability, enough time to confirm who was actually racing and who was just keeping up.
Simon ran it clean. At the one-mile mark the turn arrived.
He went into it hard — high-speed corner, handbrake rotation, simultaneous throttle input. The rear stepped out, the car pivoted, the tires bit on the exit. He was through the corner before most of the field had started turning.
Coming out of the rotation, he didn't correct the drift back toward the primary route.
He let the car run out toward the inner section — the narrow zones marked off with cones and sandbags for other active races already in progress.
The crowd watching understood what he was doing before the other drivers did.
He was going through the active race sections.
The first section had two cars still on the starting line, engines running, not yet launched. Simon looked at the gap between the cone markers — maybe six feet of clearance — and went through it at speed without lifting.
Both cars in that section hit their brakes when the Mustang appeared.
"Asshole!" One of the drivers leaned out his window at Simon's retreating car.
Simon was already at the second section.
Two cars were mid-race in this one, running hard, committed to their lines. Simon read the spacing, timed the gaps, and drove straight through the middle of their race — one car approaching from the north, one from the south.
The north car would arrive at his position in approximately one second.
Simon turned the wheel, hit the throttle, slid sideways through the gap, and came out the other side as the two cars passed behind him close enough that he heard both of them.
The crowd noise jumped several levels.
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