Leon gripped the steering wheel tightly, steadying the Silver Marauder as the road evened out. At the same time, his eyes flicked to the holographic display of the route.
According to the system's recommended path, he would need to circle around a huge detour. His brows furrowed.
Right now, every second mattered. A longer distance meant more wasted time. Even a five-minute delay could completely change the outcome of this race.
Dominic Toretto was no slouch—his speed was frightening, and more importantly, he knew the terrain. He had chosen a shortcut, trimming the distance he needed to cover. That alone reduced Leon's advantage.
And now, if Leon was forced to add another fifty to a hundred kilometers to his own route? Even O'Neil might overtake him.
That was a result Leon could never accept.
"Are there any other routes?" he asked sharply. "Ignore safety concerns and poor road conditions."
The system was rigid—it always prioritized safety when planning routes. Unless Leon specifically overrode it, it wouldn't even consider dangerous options.
But those were exactly the kind of paths he needed now. Deadly, reckless, but short.
"Recalculating route… shortcut located," the AI intoned.
On the HUD, a glowing red line appeared: the path led straight up the mountainside, over the ridge, and down the far side to rejoin the highway.
Leon's eyes narrowed. For an off-road vehicle, this would be manageable. But the Silver Marauder was a low-slung hypercar. Taking it onto such a rugged, narrow trail was practically suicide.
"This path has been abandoned for decades. Narrow width, uneven terrain. High risk of losing control and falling. Additionally, there is a ravine over ten meters wide. Estimated success rate for the Silver Marauder to jump across: 30%."
Thirty percent. Not even half.
Once, there had been a wooden bridge there—but it had collapsed long ago. No one had used this road in years. If not for the dry desert climate, it would've been swallowed by weeds by now.
"The road is only wide enough for one vehicle at a time. Proceed with extreme caution," the AI warned, the words flashing in ominous red.
Leon exhaled, jaw tightening. This shortcut was deadly. Slowing down would eat into his time, but if he cleared it, he'd rejoin the highway far faster.
"How long would it take?"
"At 100 km/h, less than ten minutes."
"And the normal route?"
"Approximately one hour."
Six times faster—even at just 100 km/h. If he could push 150 or 200, the gain would be even greater.
Leon's decision snapped into place. "Damn it—let's do it!"
He yanked the handbrake and spun the wheel. Tires screamed, sparks flew, sand sprayed in glittering arcs as the Silver Marauder pulled off a flawless 180-degree drift.
"VROOOOM!"
The engine roared like a caged beast released, propelling the Marauder like an arrow loosed from the string. The car surged up the mountain trail at over 200 km/h.
The path was terrifyingly narrow, barely wide enough for a horse cart. Even the Marauder's wheels brushed close to the edges, gravel crumbling into the abyss with every turn.
"Activate 360-degree panoramic mode," Leon commanded coolly.
The center console display shifted instantly. The view zoomed out into a satellite-like overhead projection, showing the car and its immediate surroundings.
Leon glanced to the right—only a cliff edge and certain death if he veered even slightly.
But his hands were steady. Only someone with his skill and nerve would even dare take this route.
"Warning: 180-degree hairpin turn ahead. Reduce speed immediately," the AI blared.
On such a narrow path, taking the curve at 200 would be nothing short of suicide.
Meanwhile, far above, the whir of rotor blades echoed in the night.
A helicopter cut across the sky, its front rigged with a broadcast camera. On the fuselage, bold white letters spelled: NMSL News Network.
This was no coincidence. Word had spread that tonight's street race—from Los Angeles to San Francisco—would be legendary. The winner would claim every exotic supercar on the line, a prize pool valued at over five hundred million dollars.
For any news outlet, this was the story of the year. The network had dispatched its star journalist and even mobilized a helicopter to capture the spectacle live.
"Good evening, I'm Trish, reporting for NMSL News," a blonde reporter smiled at the camera, her voice smooth and professional. "Tonight, we're covering a high-stakes underground street race. The racers are already en route, though we haven't reached the main stretch yet—hmm?"
Her eyes flicked to something below, her smile faltering.
The cameraman followed her gaze and swiveled the lens.
There, tearing up a mountainside road, was a silver car. It streaked forward like a bullet, the sound of its monstrous engine audible even through the helicopter's hull.
"Wait—isn't that the Death Track?" Trish gasped, her professional veneer cracking.
Excitement lit up her features as she turned back to the camera. "Ladies and gentlemen, you're seeing this live! Someone is attempting to conquer the infamous Death Track!"
The Death Track. A cursed path where too many had failed and died, earning its sinister reputation. It wasn't just a road—it was a gauntlet of nature's cruelty and man's arrogance.
And now, one silver monster was charging straight into it.
~~----------------------
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