ff the Atlantic and rain

and the sea, lit by the headlights of maybe sixty supercars and the bonfires the syndica

rowed trench coat, her hair whipping across h

wanted to be

lcat, idling hard, Demario's br

: a matte-blac

ugh the window with

trous. Illegal rig. His launch off the

d window

hurried. And then, across sixty cars and a wall of headligh

d them

htened on the wire un

white dress raise

a sound like the sky splitting. Tires spu

aunched lik

r, all that nitrous - and Demario was laughing, audible even at a hund

didn't

clock, let the Ferrari's downforce bite, and sli

a hundred and eig

nd left above the surf, with no barrier on the

mmed the se

level, and cut across to steal the inside line - the killing m

es were two

he hydrauli

voice. The diffuser skimmed the guardrail in a rooster tail of orange sparks. The car rotated - rotated - a

cked. He yan

standing water and

hree times, and slammed rear-first into the water-fi

of the Hairpin, straightened, a

Clayton Montgomery a desk jockey all their l

perfect one-eighty and stopped ten fee

erfly do

he sharp line of his jaw, and he had never once in his lif

gate. He walked straight to her, caught her

and cedar

her head, and his voice was wrecke

neck and turned her face toward t

into her ear, "it