Chapter 19

Jace:

There was something about nightfall in Calusa Cove. The humidity settled lower. The city lights reflected off the river. The air filled with the distant whistle of freight trains rolling through the industrial district. And somewhere… Engines started waking up. I was sitting on the dock behind my shack, absentmindedly flipping my old metal lighter open and closed, when my phone buzzed. Reid. I answered without looking.

"Yeah?"

"You busy?"

"Depends."

"You coming?"

"Where?"

"The ports."

I smiled despite myself. "Didn't that place get shut down?"

"Officially? Yeah. No."

"Unofficially?"

He laughed. "Every Friday."

I shook my head. "I told you."

"I know. No racing. I'm not asking you to race."

"What are you asking?"

"Come remind people Riverside still exists." He paused. "...Besides."

"What?"

"I think it'd be good for people to see your face."

"My face gets mixed reviews."

"That's because half the city thinks you disappeared."

"I did."

"Exactly."

Silence. 

Then— "Come on. You don't have to drive. You don't even have to stay. Just..." His voice softened. "...show up."

I stared across the river. Maybe he was right. Maybe hiding in my shack wasn't helping anything. "I'll be there."

The old shipping docks sat south of Downtown, tucked between rusting warehouses and stacks of forgotten shipping containers. Years ago, somebody had planned to expand the port. The project failed. Now… The massive concrete loading yard belonged to racers. A perfect quarter-mile strip stretched through the middle of cracked pavement. The kind of place built for speed. Even if that had never been its purpose. Music pounded from every direction. Floodlights mounted to lifted trucks illuminated the makeshift drag strip. Cars lined both sides. Mustangs. Supras. Hellcats. Camaros. Imports. Muscle. A little bit of everything.

The smell hit first. Race fuel. Burnt rubber. Hot brakes. Sea salt drifting in from the harbor. Home. I parked the Camaro near a row of Riverside cars.

Almost immediately— "Look who finally decided to stop hiding."

Reid slapped my shoulder. Board shorts. Backward hat. Still shirtless. Some things truly never changed.

"You own clothes?"

"They're optional."

"You say that because you're showing off."

"I'm showing off because I can."

I laughed. "Fair."

He already had a notebook tucked beneath one arm. Cash folded inside. Collecting bets. Organizing races. Exactly where he belonged.

"You betting now?"

"Facilitating."

"Gambling."

"Community outreach."

"Crime."

"Semantics." He winked before wandering off toward another group of drivers. 

I leaned against my Camaro, taking everything in. The crowd had changed. New faces. Young kids. Some of the old guard still lingered around the edges. Watching. Judging. Remembering. A pair of racers argued over tire pressures. Someone revved a turbocharged Civic hard enough to shake nearby windows. Further down… The Drift Kings occupied nearly an entire corner of the lot. Black cars. Matching jackets. Money. Confidence. Eastside had arrived.

I shoved my hands into my hoodie pockets and started walking. No destination. Just observing. Old habit. As I passed a bright orange Toyota Supra, something made me stop. A smell. Faint. But unmistakable. Burnt coolant. I frowned. Instinctively I glanced down at my own shoes. Then back toward the Camaro. "No..." I rubbed my fingers together. The smell wasn't following me. Fresh. Recent. I looked around. There.

A brand-new white Nissan GT-R sat two cars over. Young guy. Maybe twenty. Designer watch. Designer shoes. Designer attitude. He leaned against the fender talking loudly to a group of friends. The smell grew stronger as I got closer. I crouched beside the car. Following it.

The kid noticed immediately. "Yo."

I ignored him. Bent lower. Coolant residue glistened beneath the front bumper. Interesting.

"Hey." The guy stepped forward. "What're you doing?"

I looked underneath the front end. Fresh drips. Not many. Just enough.

He crossed his arms. "You mind?"

"I do."

His expression soured. "Watch the car."

"I'm trying to."

"My paint costs more than your hoodie."

I chuckled. "Nah." I stood. "You've got bigger problems."

He frowned. "What?"

"Pop the hood."

He laughed once. "No."

"Then don't race." 

His smile disappeared. "What are you talking about?"

"The hood."

He looked at his buddies. Then back at me. "I don't even know you."

"Good. I know cars."

He hesitated. Annoyed. Suspicious. Finally— With an exaggerated sigh— He popped the hood. I walked over. Didn't even have to search.

"There." I pointed. The upper radiator hose sat perfectly intact. Brand new. One problem. It wasn't attached to the radiator. Just resting against it. Held in place enough to fool someone doing a quick glance. But under full throttle? The pressure would've blown it completely free. Every drop of coolant would've dumped onto the pavement in seconds. Engine. Done. \

I looked back at him. "You planning on racing?"

"Yeah."

"Don't."

He stared into the engine bay. "...What the hell?" His friends crowded around. "No way. Who did that? I checked this thing before I left."

"I know."

The kid looked genuinely confused. "I swear I—"

"I believe you."

I grabbed the hose. Slid it back over the radiator neck. Then tightened the clamp with the screwdriver I always kept clipped inside my back pocket. Thirty seconds. Done. "There."

He looked at me. "You just..."

"Yeah."

"...saved my engine."

"Probably."

His face had completely changed. The cocky attitude disappeared. Replaced by disbelief. "Thanks."

I nodded once. "Check your car before every race."

"I did."

"No." I looked him straight in the eye. "You checked it before you got here. Different thing."

His expression darkened. Someone had touched it after. The realization spread across the small group. Someone in this lot… Had sabotaged a race car. My stomach tightened. Not again. The kid suddenly looked toward the staging lanes.

"My race..." He swallowed. "...was next."

"Against who?"

He hesitated. Then quietly— "...Reve."

The name hit me like ice water. I looked across the lot. Toward the Drift Kings. Toward the black BMW M2 parked beneath the floodlights. Reve leaned casually against the driver's door, laughing with two of his guys. Completely relaxed. Like he didn't have a care in the world. Something in my gut twisted.

The kid looked back at me. "You think..." 

He couldn't finish the sentence. Neither could I. Because I didn't have proof. Not yet. But I knew one thing. This wasn't a loose hose. It was deliberate. Someone had disconnected it carefully enough that it wouldn't be noticed until it was too late. Just like brakes… Just like two years ago. The laughter across the lot suddenly sounded different. Sharper. Colder. I stared at Reve from across the crowd. He hadn't seen me yet. Or maybe… He had. Either way… For the first time since coming home… The crash stopped feeling like a single tragedy. It started feeling like a pattern. And patterns… Always had people behind them.