Leon's speed was inhuman.
Crowds lined the sidewalks, smartphones raised, hoping to snap a picture. But in the blink of an eye, the Silver Marauder had already thundered past. Even video cameras couldn't track him—only a high-speed film rig could've caught that blur.
The shockwave came a full second after the car had passed, the roar of the engine arriving even later.
"Holy sh*t… I think I'm in love with this guy!"
"That speed—insane!"
"He's faster than wind, faster than sound!"
"Never seen a car like this!"
The crowd erupted, chanting a single word:
"The Marauder!"
Once, they'd sneered at the "van kid." Now, their scorn had flipped into worship. Leon had conquered them—not with words, but with speed and fury.
Inside the cockpit, Leon caught their awe in his rearview mirror and smiled faintly. His blood was boiling, his heartbeat racing with the car. Faster, he thought. I need more.
Behind him, despair took root.
O'Neal's Devel Sixteen, even redlined at 460 km/h, was falling back, unable to bridge the gap. His eyes went bloodshot. This was supposed to be his coronation—tonight was his chance to seize the crown. Losing wasn't just defeat; it was humiliation, and at the hands of the very man he'd mocked as a nobody with a van.
"No… no! I have to win!!" he screamed, slamming open the nitrous switch.
But before he could hit it, flashing red-and-blue strobes lit up the highway. Sirens wailed.
The race had caught the attention of American cops.
Unlike speed cameras, these officers sat roadside with radar guns, waiting to ambush street racers. And once they spotted you, they'd tail you, call backup, and swarm you with cruisers. In the U.S., it wasn't just a ticket—it was a whole task force.
O'Neal sneered. "Heh. Looks like Leon's luck just ran out. Running point means he's the one the cops will target. While they're on him, I'll take the win."
But reality had other plans.
Leon didn't give the cops a second thought. Catch me? Not a chance.
He heel-toed down a gear, stomped the accelerator. The Marauder leapt forward, screaming like a banshee.
On a sweeping curve, he flicked the wheel, and the car slid into a drift so smooth it looked choreographed. Rubber smoke curled into a perfect arc—elegant, flawless, intoxicating to watch.
The pursuing cops? They never even saw his taillights. One officer stared in disbelief, his radar gun trembling in his hand:
713 km/h.
He almost dropped the device.
"Seven hundred kilometers an hour… did he mount a jet engine on that thing?!"
In his twenty years on the force, he had never clocked anything like this. The car didn't just defy law—it defied physics.
Meanwhile, other racers were still barreling down the highway. The cops, missing their "big fish," settled for smaller prey.
O'Neal, still laughing, had no idea he was next.
Dominic Toretto spotted the flashing lights, instantly making a call. Keep pushing here and we're toast. He yanked the wheel, the Venom F5 kicking up dirt as he tore off-road into the desert. He knew a shortcut towards San Francisco—shorter but rougher.
Letty, unfamiliar with the terrain but sharp enough to trust Dom's instincts, followed in her Medusa S, disappearing into the dust cloud he kicked up.
The crowding haze swallowed them both, covering their tracks.
And at the very front, Leon kept flying. The highway was nearly empty at this hour, and he was eating up asphalt like it was nothing.
But just as he thought the rest of the night would be smooth sailing to the finish…
Something changed ahead.
~~----------------------
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