The service ramp was a tight, corkscrewing descent into the city's underbelly. The Levin's suspension bucked and groaned, the tires scrabbling for grip on the damp concrete. In my mirror, a single pair of headlights—ruthless and unwavering—stayed glued to my tail. Internal Affairs. They weren't playing Rostova's games; they were here to burn the whole operation down.
Gear: SECOND.
RPM: 6500.
Boost: 1.2 BAR.
The turbo screamed, shoving the lightweight car forward. I burst out of the ramp onto a multi-level parking structure, the sudden open space a shock to the system. I wove through the concrete pillars, my headlights painting frantic arcs in the darkness.
SCREECH-BOOM!
A black interceptor, identical to mine, slammed into a pillar I'd just passed, its front end collapsing in a shower of plastic and sparks. One down. But the other was still coming.
My comm-link crackled. A new, encrypted channel.
"Tanaka.This is Julian. Don't bother thanking me."
On the level below, I saw his silver Porsche streak past, the second IA interceptor hot on his heels. He'd deliberately drawn one of them off me. A temporary, self-serving alliance, but an alliance nonetheless.
"Where's Rostova?" I transmitted, sliding the Levin around a tight corner, the rear bumper kissing a concrete wall.
"Handling her own problems," Julian's voice was tight, strained. "They've made their move on her too. We're on our own. The club's emergency protocol is the old freight yards. Follow my lead. And try to keep up."
His Porsche dove down another ramp, heading for the street level. I followed, the Levin's nimbleness a blessing in the tight confines. We exploded out onto a wide, near-empty arterial road. The city' holographic glow was a dizzying smear above us.
The remaining interceptor stuck to Julian, its superior straight-line speed allowing it to pull alongside. I saw the passenger window power down, an officer leaning out with a menacing, tripod-mounted device.
A grappler. They weren't just going to chase us; they were going to disable and capture us.
"Julian, on your right!" I yelled.
He saw it. A grim smile touched his lips. "Hold on to your wallet, kid."
He stood on the brakes. The Porsche's carbon-ceramics screamed, throwing up a cloud of smoke. The IA car shot past him. In that split second, Julian downshifted and stomped the throttle again, tucking in directly behind the interceptor.
Grappler: DISARMED.
But now the interceptor was focusing on me. It swerved, trying to block my path. I feinted left, then dove right, the Levin squeezing through a gap between the interceptor and a highway divider that seemed impossibly small.
SCRAAAAAPE!
The sound of tearing metal was sickening. My mirror was gone. But I was through.
We were a bizarre, high-speed convoy: the IA interceptor in front, Julian's Porsche behind it, and me in the humble Levin bringing up the rear. We blasted through a silent, automated toll plaza, the scanners blinking uselessly at our illegal speeds.
"Enough of this," Julian muttered over the comm. "Freight yard entrance in 500 meters. The gate is rusted shut. We go through it."
"What?!"
"Through it, Tanaka! Or would you prefer a cell?"
The freight yard appeared on our left—a vast, fenced-off graveyard of decaying cargo containers and dormant cranes. The main gate was a chain-link monster, padlocked and reinforced.
The interceptor, sensing our intent, moved to block the entrance.
Julian's voice was calm. "On my mark, you go left. I'll go right. Don't lift."
MARK.
The Porsche and the Levin split like a silver and white fork of lightning. I aimed for the leftmost part of the gate, where the hinges looked weakest. The interceptor, confused, hesitated for a critical second.
I ducked my head.
IMPACT.
The Levin tore through the rusted chain-link like it was paper, the reinforced roll cage taking the brunt of the impact with a deafening CRUNCH. I was through, the car shuddering, a web of cracks spreading across my windshield.
Julian blasted through the other side, his Porsche's pristine carbon fiber splintering.
We were in. A maze of stacked containers, twenty feet high, forming narrow, canyon-like streets.
The interceptor, more battered but still functional, bulldozed through the ruined gate after us.
"Now we lose them for good," Julian said. "Follow my line. Exactly."
His Porsche shot forward, diving into the container maze. I followed, the Levin's short wheelbase allowing me to mirror his every move. Left, right, another left. We were rats in a metal labyrinth.
The interceptor was heavier, less agile. I heard the horrific sound of metal grinding against metal as it misjudged a turn and sideswiped a container, losing speed.
"Here," Julian said, sliding to a halt in a small, open square. He jumped out, ran to a seemingly random container, and typed a code into a hidden keypad. A section of the container wall swung inward, revealing a dark, downward-sloping tunnel.
"Get in!" he barked.
I drove the battered Levin into the tunnel, Julian following in the Porsche. The door hissed shut behind us, plunging us into darkness before motion-activated lights flickered on.
We were in another underground garage, smaller and more clinical than the main cavern. A secret bolt-hole.
I killed the engine. The silence was absolute, broken only by the ping of cooling metal and our ragged breathing.
I got out, my legs trembling. Julian was already inspecting the damage to his Porsche, a look of profound disgust on his face.
"You owe me a new front splitter and a carbon fiber respray," he said without looking at me.
"You volunteered," I shot back, the adrenaline making me bold.
He finally looked at me, his eyes narrowed. Then, to my surprise, he let out a short, sharp laugh. "You can drive, I'll give you that. For a stray." He walked over to the Levin, examining the shredded driver's side. "Harrison's little sleeper. I always hated this car. So… common."
"But effective," a new voice echoed.
Chloe stepped out of the shadows, her arms crossed. She looked from my wrecked Levin to Julian's scarred Porsche. "Looks like you two had a party. Internal Affairs?"
Julian nodded. "They've broken the truce. Rostova is compromised."
"Rostova is fine," Chloe said. "For now. She's covering her tracks. But the club is exposed. We need to lay low."
"Lay low?" Julian scoffed. "While they pick us off one by one? This is a declaration of war."
"It's a warning shot," a raspy voice corrected. Mr. Harrison's wheelchair emerged from a side passage, Eleanor pushing him. His face was grim. "They're not trying to destroy us yet. They're showing us they can. They're reminding us who holds the leash."
He wheeled up to me, his blue eyes scrutinizing the damage to the Levin. "You brought the car back. Mostly. And you showed spine. Julian… you showed uncharacteristic teamwork."
Julian looked away, scowling.
"The dynamics have shifted," Harrison continued. "Internal Affairs is the real threat. They don't want to manage us; they want to erase us. This changes everything."
He looked at each of us in turn.
"We can't just be a club of nostalgic gearheads anymore. We have to become something else. A real resistance." He fixed his gaze on me. "Kaito. Your Supra. Is it ready?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication.
"I… I don't know," I admitted. "I've never driven it. Not for real."
Harrison's lips curved into a thin, determined smile.
"Then it's time you did. We have a shipment of high-performance parts coming in. The last of its kind. We need to intercept it before Internal Affairs does. It's a dangerous run. The most dangerous we've ever attempted."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"The Silver Run. And you, Kaito, will be our lead driver."
Julian's head snapped up. "Him? A rookie in a twenty-year-old tuner car? You're sentencing him to death!"
"Perhaps," Harrison said, his eyes never leaving mine. "Or perhaps he's the only one unpredictable enough to pull it off. The choice is yours, Kaito. You can walk away now, and we'll forget you were ever here. Or you can strap into your car and lead us into the storm."
The entire room was silent, waiting. Chloe watched me, her expression unreadable. Julian looked furious. Harrison was a statue of resolve.
I thought of the silent Supra in my warehouse. The ghost I'd nursed back to life. This was the moment. The pressure point.
I met Harrison's stare.
"Tell me about the Silver Run," I said.
My choice was made.