The highway ahead was blocked.
A full SWAT team had set up a barricade—armored trucks across the lanes, riot police crouched behind them, shotguns leveled and ready. Their formation was tight, disciplined, too perfect. This wasn't some ad-hoc response to street racing. This was a setup.
Either they'd been tipped off… or someone was using them as bait.
The cliffs rose high on both sides—no way to slip past. The only option was to cut into the wilderness, skirting toward San Francisco.
Leon narrowed his eyes. Who planned this? O'Neal? Dominic? Or someone else entirely?
One thing was certain: slowing down meant falling into their trap.
He floored the throttle, yanked the wheel—the Silver Marauder snapped into a ninety-degree drift. Tires screamed, smoke curling in the headlights. As the car slid past, Leon casually extended his middle finger at the line of armed officers.
The cops bristled, jaws tight, eyes burning with fury. Guns were already trained on him, yet the bastard had the gall to taunt them. They wanted to pull the trigger so badly it hurt. But orders were orders—they were only here to intimidate, not shoot.
Leon's laugh echoed through the night as he vanished into the desert.
He wasn't naïve, though. Real cops wouldn't bring riot gear and barricade trucks just for a street race. This had all the stink of a premeditated ambush. Either:
The authorities were staging a counter-terror op, and he just blundered into it.
Or someone had deliberately planted the barricade to drive the racers off-road—into a kill zone.
His gut told him it was the latter.
This race is no simple race.
The Marauder jolted as the ground turned rough. Its suspension—never tuned for rally terrain—struggled to cope. The car's low ground clearance scraped against uneven earth. Leon flicked on the high beams, scanning the path ahead.
And immediately, he saw it—this wasn't natural terrain.
The dips and trenches weren't worn smooth by time; they'd been dug. Artificial. Deliberate. Someone had engineered the landscape to trap him.
Leon's expression hardened. "So… this is aimed at me."
He couldn't turn back. The mountain walls flanked him tight. The only way out was to circle around the ridge and rejoin the highway.
The radio crackled. Letty's voice:
"Boss, you good? I followed Dom off-road."
Leon smirked faintly. "Funny… so did I."
"What? With your skills, why bother taking a shortcut through the desert?"
"Because the highway's blocked. Barricades, SWAT trucks, the whole nine yards. Had no choice but to detour."
Letty hesitated. "…Could it be O'Neal? He wants this win so badly—maybe he planted the roadblock."
"That's one option." Leon's tone dropped colder. "But Dom's on the same path, too. Maybe he's not running from the cops. Maybe he's running to me."
Letty fell silent.
"Focus on driving," Leon cut the channel. "I've got company up ahead."
Because there were lights in the distance. Not one pair—dozens.
At least ten vehicles were rolling straight toward him, their beams slicing across the night. Heavy off-road trucks, each packed with riders. Some leaned out the windows, hands steady on pistols.
Muzzles flashed. Shots cracked through the desert air.
The wind dragged the bullets wide, but Leon heard the whistle of rounds slicing past his car.
His jaw clenched.
"You came to kill me?"
His grip tightened on the wheel, fury igniting.
"Then I'll show you the Marauder's true nature."
~~----------------------
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