ã€ŠRumble in the Rockiesã€‹


 One

    Washington Park Arena, Denver, Colorado

    It took three tries for his gunner to get Dillon¡¯s attention. The last ''Dillon'' was shouted from less than a foot away. The young driver snapped out of his mental run-through of the arena with a start, looking around in confusion.

    Spotting Sammy glaring at him through the open driver¡¯s door, he shook his head. "Sorry. Lost in the¨C"

    "Yeah, yeah, I know. You¡¯re already driving through the arena. You wanna run a system check on that rear camera? I adjusted the housing, and I need to see if it¡¯s zeroed in."

    Dillon nodded and flipped through the camera views on the dash. The view from the rear camera met with Sammy¡¯s approval, so they continued to check the car¡¯s weapon systems. The front-mounted machine guns and twin rockets checked out, as well as the side-mounted light cannons. Sammy scowled at the rear-mounted recoilless, despite the green light.

    "I still ain¡¯t sure about that second-hand tube you got us. It fits the rear mount okay, but something is hinky about the trigger." He tapped the barrel with one finger. "I got a bad feeling about it."

    Dillon shrugged. "The winnings from the last event barely covered the armor repairs and new tires. This one was a good deal, so I took it."

    "We wouldna had to replace it if you¡¯d just given me a clear shot at that bastard. You let him hammer us over and over." Sammy slapped the roof of the car for emphasis.

    Dillon ducked his head. The used weapon wasn¡¯t what was bothering his gunner. It was this argument again. He knew it was useless to get him to agree with his logic, nevertheless he tried again. "Look, I dodged what I could. I needed to keep our speed up or we wouldn¡¯t have gotten second place."

    "Third was plenty fine, and then we wouldna had to replace the tube. I liked that tube! Zeroed in all nice and sweet. Always hit what I was aiming at with it." He narrowed his eyes at his driver. "When I actually get a shot."

    Stung, Dillon fired back. "You get to shoot plenty. I can¡¯t only be lining up shots for you. I have to keep our speed up or we¡¯ll get plastered. When you¡¯re in front, everyone¡¯s gunning for you."

    Sammy threw up his hands. "So stop being in front all the time! Them barrels on the gats ain¡¯t got but a hundred rounds through them. They¡¯re going to break of old age before they need replacing. And then maybe we can stop getting our ass shot off, so you don''t have to drag us across the finish with both back tires shot out."

    Both men stared at each other, breathing heavily. Only the loudspeaker calling all the competitors to their starting positions broke the tension. Dillon looked away first, reaching over to pull his helmet on. Sammy came around the car and slid into his seat next to Dillon, fingers working to tighten the strap on his helmet.

    Despite the helmet muffling his voice, since their communications weren¡¯t up yet, Dillon could hear the anger in his gunner¡¯s voice. "And when are we going to put a real gunner¡¯s seat in this wreck? I¡¯m tired of being offset, and I can¡¯t shoot across you if someone¡¯s on that side."

    Dillon didn¡¯t answer, instead mashing the power button a little harder than he¡¯d wanted to. The button cracked slightly while the vehicle came to life, motors spinning up as the powerplant fed them electricity. The battered, dash-mounted screens for each position flickered a few times before clearing up. A quick look around the display showed him all the gauges were where they were supposed to be. Satisfied that everything was correct, he looked at his gunner. He got a thumbs up in return.

    He pulled forward from their bay, following the lighted path towards their start position. Focusing on the feel of the steering wheel and gentle rumble of the tires on the pavement, the young driver tried to put the argument out of his mind and get back to his mind¡¯s eye view of the arena.

    The Washington Park Arena was a giant rectangle, with a configurable interior. It was the most popular of the American Autoduel Association (AADA) sanctioned arenas in Colorado. The owners could add the number of obstacles they wanted, constrained only by the four concrete pillars down the middle that held the television cameras and commentators. Sometimes it was a simple oval track, with few obstructions. Those were his favorite, because he could really get the speed up and whip around that track. Other times, like today, were done at much slower speeds. This allowed for greater opportunities for the competitors to shoot at each other, which the crowd really loved.

    Today the competitors were distributed evenly around the perimeter of the arena. There were six of them, three on each long side. The track wasn¡¯t a true oval, more like a rounded rectangle. Speeds were supposed to remain low, making maneuverability count for more. The center of the arena contained four ¡®gates¡¯ they needed to pass through, in any order they chose. Only after a competitor had passed through each gate could they return to their start position, and the winners would be determined by the amount of time it took to complete all four gates. If they finished at all.

    They were familiar with this type of contest and Dillon realized this explained the argument. Having to make the sharp turns and pass through the gates, speeds would be low, and gunnery would be of equal value to driving. Disabling a vehicle so they couldn¡¯t complete their gates was a valid tactic and one which the crowds loved. The two elevated viewing stands on the long ends of the arena, fifty feet off the ground, would be packed with fans looking for destruction and mayhem.

    They¡¯re gonna be cheering while we try to blow each other to pieces, when all that matters is clearing the gates. If everyone just concentrated on driving their best, we¡¯d see real competition. The start line came into view, so he swallowed back his anger. A clear head and calmness were what he needed now. No distractions by thinking of what could be.

    The car idled to a stop right at the yellow strip marking their start, and the narrow rectangular light bar on the ceiling illuminated red. Beyond was a strip of road, curving slightly to the right that led to the arena proper.

    Sammy glanced over at him, hands on his joystick controls. His voice came through the speakers in the helmet, all traces of their argument gone. The anticipation of shooting something always put the man in a good mood. "You ready, Dill? We¡¯re gonna nail this thing, for sure."

    Nodding slightly, Dillon gave his partner twin thumbs up from where his hands rested on the steering wheel. "I drive, you shoot."

    "And we take it all at the end." The gunner nodded at their pre-bout ritual, and Dillon found himself relaxing further. The Zen state he sought was tantalizingly close, where he drove and was preternaturally aware of everything happening around him. That calm was almost like a drug, and he yearned for that bliss it brought.

    The arena boomed with the cheers of the crowd when the announcer called out their favorite teams and reiterated the rules of the event. Then the countdown began, the crowd chanting in time with the digital clock.

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    The clock reached ¡®two¡¯ and the red light changed to amber.

    At ¡®one¡¯ the amber light went out.

    At ¡®zero¡¯ the bar turned green, and Dillon mashed his foot down on the accelerator. The car leapt forward, hurtling towards the entrance. Sammy whooped once when they cleared the opening and entered the track. The cheering of the crowd came through their ceramic and plastic shell like a surf roar of noise, and the gunner laughed wildly.

    "Yeah, get some!"

    Dillon ignored the noises, eyes scanning from the road ahead to his cameras showing the sides and rear. Front, rear, left, right. The pattern came easily to him, from years of constant practice and singular focus. He never lingered too long on one view, his mind taking in what it perceived and integrating that with the rest of the information.

    Before entering the first gate, an autoduellist had to complete a lap. The order one completed the gates didn¡¯t matter, and different strategies existed for which order the gates should be entered. Dillon didn¡¯t subscribe to those theories. The gate he went for depended on the situation that existed once they completed a lap. Bounding your mind with a narrowly defined strategy is a sure way to limit your options.

    They were the outermost car on the right side upon exiting, and Dillon accelerated for all he was worth to get ahead of the competitors. Keeping in mind his gunner¡¯s demands, he tried to keep the car straight while the steady thump of the recoilless vibrated through the steering wheel. The gleeful cackling beside him was reassuring, so he concentrated on the upcoming turn.

    "Curve, driver¡¯s side," he announced.

    "Got it."

    He followed the curve of the track, having to decelerate some due to the lack of a bank. They cleared the short end, and he saw a huge cloud of smoke near the far end. Flames were interspersed with the billowing black streamers, and the outline of a vehicle on its right side could be discerned within. The cloud covered nearly the entire width of the track.

    "Smoke ahead. Maybe a wreck. Gotta go through."

    Sammy glanced up from his screens. "Damn. Looks like Countdown¡¯s car. How¡¯d they get them?"

    "Don¡¯t matter. They¡¯re not going to get us the same way. Be ready up front when we clear the smoke."

    They were into and through the smoke cloud in seconds. Beyond the track was clear. The culprit hadn¡¯t waited around to catch anyone coming through the smoke. The odds were fifty-fifty either way, and they''d caught a break.

    Something about this situation teased at Dillon¡¯s mind. "Hang on." He took them close to the inner wall and cut the wheel when they rounded the next curve, maintaining his speed. The car went into a drift to the right, tires screeching.

    A heavy slug tore through the air behind them, impacting on the barrier wall. Dillon grinned and Sammy pounded the ceiling with a fist.

    "Yeah! Line him up and I¡¯ll nail him."

    The car in question was at the midway point, facing them. Quickly, it accelerated into a U-turn and started heading for the turn. Their front-mounted machine guns chattered away, sending pieces flying off the target¡¯s rear end and chewing up the track around the car while Dillon steered towards the middle of the track.

    "No time, Sammy. Gate¡¯s coming up."

    His gunner jerked a thumb at the disappearing target. "Come on, Dill. We can spread this guy¡¯s rear end all over the track."

    The first gate loomed on his left and Dillon aimed for it. "Time for that later. Going through. Be ready for whoever¡¯s on the other side."

    Ignoring the waves of anger radiating off his gunner, he sent their car hurtling through the gate. At only a car length long and twice that in width, the thick steel walls formed a tunnel that separated one side from the other. Transition was always the dangerous part, never knowing if an opponent was waiting for you on the other side.

    When their front bumper cleared the wall Dillon sent them into another drift to the right. The car bounced and shuddered over some debris in the track, yet nobody shot at them. The wreck was still emitting clouds of smoke, giving them plenty of concealment.

    He continued the drift until they reached the far wall and hugged it around the turn. Up ahead, he saw the other two cars from their side disappearing into gates. He kicked up his speed, trying to get past the gates before the other side came through.

    Sammy shifted, all his attention on their left while the gates flew by. They both saw a car exiting at the same time. Dillon braked hard and Sammy fired the side-mounted gun. The shot went wide, impacting the wall and spraying concrete fragments into the air. The bullets from the other car also flew wide, missing their front end with feet to spare.

    "Dammit Dillon! I woulda had him. You gotta give me a shot!"

    Dillon didn¡¯t answer. He let the anger wash over him, focusing on the turn-in point and the apex of the curve. Sammy hammered out a few shots from the recoilless while the other cars came out onto the track, and then they were through the curve.

    "I¡¯m gonna take the near gate and try to come out behind them. You¡¯ll get your shot then, Sammy."

    "About time," was the grunted reply.

    He took them through the gate at speed, hitting the brakes when they exited and kicking the car into a hard slide to the right. Even though that kind of maneuver dumped a lot of speed, it took them through the cones of fire too quickly for a shot. At least, that was the hope.

    They emerged into a free-fire zone. The previous two cars through the gate were trading fire with the other two cars from his side. Dillon slid into track, desperately trying to avoid the firestorm. Stray bullets thumped into their armor, but it looked like their entry went unnoticed.

    "Oh yeah! Target rich environment, baby. Get some!" Sammy alternated firing left and right, blazing away at whomever was in sight, cackling maniacally.

    Straightening out, Dillon accelerated and picked up speed faster than his opponents, who were still concentrating on reducing each other to pieces. Clearing the pack, Sammy switched to the recoilless again, shouting incoherently with glee the choice of targets.

    They left their opponents behind, Dillon smiling inside his helmet. He could clear the third gate before those jokers would even get to their second. Then it was only a matter of the fourth gate and they could claim first place at the finish line.

    ***

    Dillon barely had time to remove his helmet when he saw Rebekah Walton striding toward him, and he recognized the look in her eyes. He''d seen it before in reporters who knew him; they were bound and determined to get some good sound bites, no matter what. A wave of dread washed over him while his stomach clenched. He¡¯d never get used to these post-battle interviews.

    Still, there wasn''t much he could do. Standing in the winner''s circle meant interviews and questions, and he tried to ignore the butterflies in his stomach. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and tried to look happy at the woman approaching him.

    With a huge, fake smile, the black-haired reporter held out her microphone, the drone camera hovering just over her shoulder. "Mr. Hodges, congratulations on your win today. That''s another one in the books here in Washington Arena. What would you say contributed the most to your team¡¯s success?"

    Her bubbly personality was at odds with the look in her eyes. They''d bumped heads before, in some of his previous wins and neither enjoyed the experience.

    "Umm," he began, his eyes wide and frantic. "Well, you see, this competition was a basic¨C"

    "Basic. You consider this an elementary-level event. Would you say the quality of the competition wasn¡¯t very high? Was this a real challenge for you?"

    "No. Yes. Um¡­ I don¡¯t know? I mean, we finished all the gates before they were halfway through, so¡­"

    She cut him off. "Does this mean you¡¯ll be seeking out tougher courses? Might you be branching out beyond Denver?"

    Sammy came around the car and threw an arm around Dillon¡¯s shoulders. "Hey, Rebekah. How¡¯s it going? Thanks for the opportunity here. We really appreciate you putting us on your channel."

    She turned her smile on him. "Thank you, Samuel. This contest was over fairly quickly. You didn¡¯t have much opportunity to showcase your skills. Would you say that the driver is the more important position?"

    His smile wouldn¡¯t have melted butter. "Darling, it¡¯s all about the ¡®W¡¯. If you win, nothing else matters. Dillon saw that these jokers were more interested in blasting each other, so we didn¡¯t play their game. And that¡¯s why we won."

    The camera switched back to Dillon. "Do you agree, Dillon? Is driving more important? Is that the key to winning in the arena? Please, our viewers would love any advice you can give."

    Lost in the back-and-forth exchange between the other two, he started when the attention was back on him. "Driving. Yeah, it¡¯s important." His mind raced, trying to come up with some advice. "It helps you win."

 Two

    Advanced Tactical Software Solutions Building, Denver, Colorado

    Nico ¡®Basher¡¯ Battaglia leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. His gaze looked across the city, seeing none of the buildings and roads while he contemplated the AADA document he¡¯d just read. It held the details of their new brainchild, a road rally titled ''Dead Man''s Run.'' Part of him, the old part he thought he¡¯d buried, fumed at the implications it represented. The new part of him reveled at the opportunity it presented.

    His compact frame and thick brown hair were that of a young man, muscular and lean, courtesy of his Gold Cross account. The gray eyes told a different story, courtesy of the experience gained from over a decade of autoduelling. The years spent in the autoduel circuit burned away any naivete he¡¯d ever had and replaced it with cold, hard calculation. It was ironic his nickname was ¡®Basher¡¯ when in fact the bashing was merely the final step in his calculations. It happened after he¡¯d taken the measure of his opponents, learned their strengths and weaknesses, and used that all knowledge to his advantage so that their cars were so much wreckage littering the arena.

    Abruptly, he stood and paced to the window. Before he could decide whether to take advantage of this opportunity, he needed to address his anger. I told those algae-brained idiots in the AADA years ago they needed something to rejuvenate the sport of autoduelling. I tried to convince them it was getting old and stale, and that we were going to continue to lose audience shares to other sports.

    The memories of those long-ago arguments circled round and round in his head, until he resolutely locked them down. There would be time enough later to address them. For now, he needed to convince one person in particular to support him in sponsoring a team for the Dead Man''s Run.

    More calm now, he picked up his tablet and walked out of his office. Stopping by his executive assistant¡¯s desk, he asked, "Ms. Thorpe, where is my daughter right now?"

    She checked the list of calendars on-screen and pointed at one. "The main simulation lab, Mr. Battaglia. I believe they¡¯re running through the latest targeting software update."

    Nodding his thanks, he set off for the lab. Advanced Tactical Software Solutions wasn¡¯t a large company, with less than a hundred employees taking up three floors of the high-rise in a part of town called the Denver Technological Center. The ATSS was his new passion, built from his accumulated winnings and the ''severance package'' from the AADA board. That kind of money allowed him to put together the kind of company that could take the lead in advanced targeting software. He''d hired young and hungry programmers and leveraged the hell out of his contacts in and out of the industry. After a decade, their reputation for superior targeting software was second to none, and both state and federal militaries plied them with contract after contract. And yet, the AADA and therefore the autoduelling world refused to deal with him, ignoring the software that could change the whole industry.

    A large sign at the door to the lab noted that no entry was allowed when the light was on, indicated by the large rotating red light over the door. He used his keycard to unlock the door anyway, although in consideration of any ongoing test he carefully closed the door, making very little sound.

    A mockup of a vehicle sat in the middle of the room, with various pieces of equipment strapped to it and wires running back to multiple computers. The entire wall in front of the dummy vehicle was set up like a projection display, and it was currently showing a digitized representation of an arena.

    Hmm, Armadillo Arena, I think. I never competed there very much. Still, I recognize the layout. The image on the screen shifted, the mockup turning in place. The floor underneath was a turntable, allowing a three-sixty view on just one wall. A targeting reticle was tracking on a computer-generated vehicle while the car slewed around a turn. The reticle moved closer and closer to the target, until it was directly over the rear bumper. Then the reticle vanished for a half a second, reappearing above the hood and to the left. A female voice inside the mockup cursed loudly, and the simulation paused.

    "Dammit, Jack. It hiccupped again." Her aggrieved tone made him smile. When she got angry like that, all vestiges of her mother disappeared, leaving behind what she''d gotten from him. Kayla¡¯s head popped out of the driver¡¯s window, her expression one of extreme annoyance. She wasn¡¯t wearing a helmet, and her chestnut brown hair was thick and lush unlike her father¡¯s. Despite his top of the line Gold Cross insurance, cloning only copied the existing genes, and there was nothing they could do about his receding hairline.

    The man at the computer console was watching the screen while lines of code scrolled by. "I know, I know. I¡¯m running it down now. Give me a few¡­," his voice trailed off as he slowed the scrolling code to read it more carefully.

    "You know, Kayla, we have test engineers for this. You¡¯re overseeing the whole project, not just the gunnery system." Her father walked over to the car, shaking his head.

    She rotated over onto her back, reached up with two hands, and pulled herself out of the car through the window. Giving her father a kiss on the cheek, she shrugged. "Why should they get to have all the fun? Besides, Tasha and Scott disagreed on the reason for the glitch, so I had to get in there and break the tie."

    "Well, please take a break. I need your eyes on something." He held up his tablet.

    Flipping her hair back out of her face, Kayla took the tablet and tapped on the screen. Her eyes rapidly scanned across the screen.

    "So¡­ Dead Man¡¯s Run. A race? No, not just a race. A road rally." She looked up at him. "What¡¯s going on, Dad? Where did you get this?"

    "This is the AADA pre-release, sent to every company that either sponsors an autoduellist or supplies equipment. Some old friends of mine made sure I got a copy, since I''m persona non grata over there. This gives everyone a few days to get their responses ready. After that, it¡¯s going to the networks for public release. What do you think?"

    She leaned back against a console, scrolling through the message. "It says there are multiple cities around the country fielding racers, including Denver. They compete in three consecutive legs, all ending in Sturgis." She looked up. "Why Sturgis?"

    He shrugged. "Used to be an annual motorcycle meet there. Before the Blights and everything. Now it¡¯s just wild country. Apparently, it still holds some nostalgia, since there¡¯s a fair-sized cycle gang that operates around there."

    She went back to reading. "There¡¯ll be a final event at Sturgis, and then¡­" Her voice trailed off and her eyes went wide. "A ten-million-dollar final prize? Are they for real?"

    "What they are is desperate. Just like I said, all those years ago. Instead of listening to me, they stripped me of my titles and forced me out. Made me retire from autoduelling for challenging the status quo. They didn¡¯t want to listen then, and now they¡¯re acting like they¡¯ve discovered the greatest thing since sliced algae bread."

    His daughter frowned, her own memories of her father''s disgrace resurfacing. "So why now? Why are they doing this cross-country road rally for a bunch of money that ends in a long-forgotten town?"

    Leaning on the console next to his daughter, he sighed. "Autoduelling viewership keeps dropping. My friend in the Denver AADA office let slip that attendance has dropped fifty-five percent in the last three years. The board members want something new to keep selling tickets and streaming subscriptions. Apparently, their flailing attempt to grab audience attention have led to this."

    Handing the tablet back to him, she asked, "What did you want from me, then? Am I supposed to figure out if this is a good idea? Cause right now, I have no idea."

    He smiled. "No. What I need from you is a car design. Something that can make it from Denver to Sturgis over whatever route they decide on."

    "Wait. What? A car? You¡¯re going to compete in this thing?" She pushed off from her leaning position and started stalking across the floor. "Are you insane? You haven''t competed in any kind of real combat in over ten years. And when you did, all your fights were in an arena, not on the open road."

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    "Hey, there was that one time in Texas¨C"

    She cut him off. "One time! And it was a friendly duel. What are you thinking? Why would you even need to compete in this thing. You¡¯ve built all this," and she waved her arms, encompassing the whole building. "You don¡¯t need to prove anything. You certainly don''t need the money. And you very definitely don''t owe them anything after the way they treated you."

    He stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders gently, his voice growing eager and animated. "First, I need to prove they were wrong in forcing me out of autoduelling. Winning this Dead Man¡¯s Run will be a poke in the eye of every single AADA exec and toady who thought I was crazy for saying the emperor had no clothes. I told them a decade ago that attendance would keep dropping. That people were tired of all the safety rules and the stylized violence. Do you know that BLUD membership has grown thirty percent over the same time? They¡¯ve started filming their own duels on the road, with car mounted and drone cameras. Kayla, these underground videos are going viral in a big way. They¡¯re starting to get more views than the playbacks of lower division duels."

    Getting himself back under control, he released her shoulders and waved one hand at the mockup. "Second, I promise you, I won¡¯t be driving. You¡¯re right, I¡¯m out of practice and there¡¯s not enough time for me to get back up to where I used to be. No, we¡¯ll have to find a crew for this, from the pool of existing autoduellists. Third. We need to grow our business base. Government contracts are fine, but they limit us in what we can develop and how much profit we¡¯re allowed to make. To really grow, we need better access to the public markets. This could be our opportunity to show the world what we can do. What you can do, Kayla."

    She turned to look at the projected screen, frozen with the image of the target car. "The government contracts have always been a safe bet. Constrained requirement sets, endless rounds of testing to work out the bugs, and long-term sustainment contracts. What if¡­ what if our software isn¡¯t good enough for the commercial market? What if nobody buys it from us?"

    "They will if we win." He turned her to face the screen. "And that¡¯s the key to the car design, Kayla. Put together something that showcases our strengths. We can''t use anything we''ve sold to the governments, but we have stuff they haven''t seen yet. Let''s show them just how good our code is. So, what do you say? Can you come up with a design we can use to win this rally?"

    Inhaling deeply, his daughter looked over at the mockup, and then gave a short nod. "It¡¯ll mean time away from testing the code, Dad."

    He waved a hand in Jack¡¯s direction. "Like I said, we have testers for a reason. We hired some pretty good ones, too. They can handle it while you¡¯re doing this for me."

    "Where are you going to find a crew?"

    He smiled. "Eric will do that. I¡¯m going to talk to him next. He¡¯ll find us the right set of people that can use our car to its fullest. He¡¯ll need some specs from you to narrow the field, though."

    She turned and sat down at the computer console. "Guess I¡¯d better get cracking on the design, then."

    "That¡¯s my girl." Nico leaned down to kiss her forehead before he left the lab.

    ***

    Eric Williamson was tall, lean, and his brown hair was habitually tied back in a ponytail. It was only when he was riding his motorcycle that he let it loose. The ATSS Director of Field Operations, he frequently traveled to the locations where they were doing software installs and training on the new capabilities. Right now, he was in Little Rock, Arkansas. He was also not happy, and his frown filled the small screen on the tablet.

    "So, I have to drop everything I¡¯m doing and find a crew to compete for you? What the hell, Nico?"

    "We have to get ahead of the competition. This release is going to every company that sponsors a team already. We have a small window of time before everybody and their brother will be trying to field a team. Only the major corporations will be able to field a car that qualifies, and they¡¯ll be trolling for crews. We need to set our hook first."

    Despite the small image on his tablet screen, it was enough to show Eric¡¯s continued displeasure. "First off, what the hell¡¯s with all the fishing references? You¡¯ve never fished a day in your damned life. Second, why are we competing in this thing anyway?"

    Nico went through the reasons he gave Kayla, with more emphasis on the business expansion portion. He knew he was hitting the right points, because by the time he was done, Eric was looking frustrated but no longer frowning.

    "Dammit. Fine. I¡¯ll cut this trip short and get back there so I can work on this. I¡¯ll need to interview these drivers and gunners, too. Can¡¯t tell everything from a profile and video coverage." He paused, giving his boss a quizzical look. "You realize this kind of event isn¡¯t like anything you adrenaline junkies have ever done before, right? Autoduellists are used to driving and shooting for ten, twenty minutes, tops. Now they¡¯ll be stuck in a car for hours at a time, with only intermittent combat. Patience and endurance will be critical factors."

    "So, find us racers with those qualities, Eric. I know you can do it."

    ***

    Lakewood, Colorado

    Gabriel Santos walked around his car, running his hand over the new image painted on the hood of his personal car. His own design, it was a white-robed angel, face hidden within the ink-black depths of its cowl, pointed a massive pistol at the viewer. The opening for the barrel was nearly as big as his hand.

    "Magnificent!" He turned to look at the body shop owner. "Turk, your boy has outdone himself."

    The other man smiled slightly. "I''m surprised it''s not blurry. You should have seen his hands shake when I told him he was going to do a job for the Angels of Boom. Isn''t that right, Sean?"

    A young man in his early twenties stepped out from the office, hands clasped in front of him. "It--It was my pleasure, Mr. Santos."

    The driver smiled and walked over to shake the young mechanic¡¯s hand. "Great job kid! You got a real eye for this kind of work. Hey, you want some pit-level tickets to my next event?" He reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a business card. "Call my manager. He''ll set you up."

    Young Sean held the card like it was made of gold. Angel motioned to the office with a slight head gesture. Turk preceded him into the office and the autoduellist closed the door behind him. The shop owner motioned to a chair while he pulled out a key and unlocked the lowermost desk drawer. The data cube he pulled out went into the desktop computer, and the monitor lit with a logo of a grinning skull and playing cards, with the words, ¡®Dead Man¡¯s Run¡¯ in big letters across the top of the image.

    "Watch this and thank me later for pushing your name up to Martin Graumann Industries. They''re interested in sponsoring you for one of the Denver teams."

    The video wasn''t very long, and when it was over Angel looked over at the other man. "What''s the catch?"

    "No catch. Other than you have to win. MGI is a huge backer for this event. They''re in tight with the AADA. And they want you to represent them. I got the unspoken sense that they were¡­ highly interested in ensuring one of their teams made it to Sturgis."

    Gabe frowned and his fists balled. "I don''t need their damned help to win."

    Turk pursed his lips and shrugged. "Everyone needs a little help every now and again. Of course, it''s not like you can do anything about it. Just accept that fate will fall your way when you need it to."

    "Maybe they should find someone else who needs their help."

    "Did I fail to mention the pot is ten million dollars? And your portion is one million of that. Plus, their sponsorship during the rally and after. You''ll have the MGI publicity team working the social media accounts big time." Turk leaned back in his chair, eyes bright while he watched Gabe struggle with the amount. The small man''s fists relaxed slowly, and an avaricious grin spread over his lips.

    ***

    Broomfield, Colorado

    Classical music issued forth from the wall-mounted speakers, which were artfully integrated into the wood paneling. The elderly man sitting at the workbench in the center of the room hummed softly with the tune, his eyes focused on his work. A large magnifying glass, mounted on an articulating arm gave him a clear view of the Napoleonic soldier clamped in a stand on the table. Using a very fine brush, he added the detailing to the uniform, occasionally looking at the book on the stand next to the bench. It was open to a full-color illustration of the soldier, in his historical regalia. A display table against the wall held the serried ranks of completed figurines.

    The phone rang, a soft warbling that cut across the timeless melody without clashing with it. He stopped humming and carefully laid the brush down on a stand. With the same unhurried movements, he picked up a remote to pause the music, then spun his chair around to the desk behind him. Picking up the phone, he slowly asked, "Yes?"

    "Sir. The AADA is going to make a major announcement in a few days about some kind of race across the country. I don¡¯t know all the details yet, but they ran it through the governor¡¯s office. His staff is setting up a lot of meetings to get ready. Given the emphasis they''re putting on this, I thought you ought to know."

    "Very good, Blake. I''ve been waiting for this news. Keep your ears open and let me know when you find out more." He pressed the disconnect button and turned to the quiescent computer. Tapping a key to wake it, he opened the email program and started a new message. He typed ''Leadership'' in the "To" field, and the software dutifully filled in the distribution list. In the "Subject" field he simply put, ¡®Muster¡¯ and tomorrow¡¯s date.

    The body of the email he left blank. Those in the distribution list knew where and what time to come; all they required was a date. It was essential for the Colorado members of Big League Unlimited Dueling to keep a low profile after the war with the AADA. Still, a muster call from a founding member would always be obeyed.

    Looking up at the far wall, he smiled at a picture of a young man. He was sitting on the hood of a heavily armed car, driving gloves in hand and a huge smile on his face. A narrow black ribbon crossed over the top right corner, and a patch lay on the bottom left. It showed the BLUD symbol; a yellow circle, with a broad red border and a red stripe running diagonally across the center, from upper left to lower right.

    "We have our opportunity, Chance. Those AADA racers will learn to fear BLUD once again." Turning back to his workbench, he restarted the music and picked up his paintbrush.

 Chapter 3

    <h2>Chapter 3</h2>

    Denver, Colorado

    Dillon parked behind his parent¡¯s restaurant and turned off the engine with a sigh. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, letting his hands drop into his lap.

    Another blown interview. Another chance to get myself out there, shot to hell. Why can¡¯t I talk like a normal person during these things?

    He would have sat there a lot longer, however the back door opened, and his father stepped out, carrying two bags of garbage. Pausing when he saw Dillon, he only nodded and continued toward the dumpster. The young man sighed again and got out to help him.

    Allen Hodges waited for his son to open the dumpster lid, and then tossed the two heavy bags, one at a time. A slender man, he¡¯d run track and cross country in school, long legs eating up the miles. Dillon inherited the same build, although he preferred to rack up the miles behind the wheel.

    Neither one spoke, and Dillon could tell from his father¡¯s body language that he''d heard about today¡¯s event. The restaurant mounted several television screens in the bar area, so it was a good bet everyone had already seen the recap and arena highlights.

    Stepping inside the back door, the smells of the kitchen and the sound of dishes and utensils clattering hit him like a warm memory. When he wasn¡¯t working on his car or in school, the Home Sweet Diner was his second home. Whether he was cleaning dishes, working the grill, or delivering take out, most of his childhood revolved around his family¡¯s restaurant.

    Still quiet, Allen went to wash his hands before heading back to the prep station. Dillon followed suit, uneasy in the absence of words and dreading the end of it. Even though their head cook, Maurice nodded silently at Dillon, none of the other kitchen staff acknowledged his presence. He knew where their loyalties lay.

    His mother would be up front, taking care of the customers. Danica, the oldest and heir to the Hodges restaurant legacy, was managing one of their other restaurants tonight. At least one of his other two sisters would also be helping, he supposed. Of the four Hodges kids, he was the only one whose ambitions went beyond the family business.

    His father frowned and started to say something, stopping when Dillon took his place at the prep station. Instead, without saying a word, he turned and left, heading out to the front. Sighing, the young man checked the waiting tickets and waited for the inevitable lecture on the dangers of autoduelling and his responsibility to the family business.

    Maurice nodded at the door. "They just worried about you, man. It''s hard watching your kid putting his life at risk. Especially when they know he has other choices."

    Dillon started putting together the first order, hands moving automatically among the ingredient bins. He could prep food orders as easily as he slid through a gap between two cars and take the lead position.

    "I know. I just wish they''d listen to my side. I won tonight, just like I''ve done any number of other times. I''m good at what I do."

    The bald cook laughed, his belly shaking. "Boy, you can win but you can''t talk. They didn''t even bother to show any of them talking to you after it was done. Guess they''ve learned their lesson that you ain''t good for the ratings."

    The young man paused, resting his hands on the prep table, cheeks coloring. "What''s wrong with me, Maurice? Why can''t I just talk like a normal person when the camera is on me?"

    The cook expertly plated the meal he''d just finished and passed it over to Dillon for the final touches. "Some people got the knack. Some people don''t. Even if you don''t, you can learn. Just gotta find someone to teach you is all. Can''t do it all on your own, Dillon."

    ***

    The evening passed with his father saying nothing more to him than was required to serve food and clean up after. His mother watched him with her patented worried look, the same look she wore after every arena fight. That was something he was used to. Allen''s silence was something new, and Dillon couldn''t tell if that was because he''d run out of things to say, or he was just biding his time.

    Finally, while they were stacking chairs and the robot vacuum was whirring over the carpet, Allen spoke. "Dillon. We need to talk about your future."

    So, it was both. I''ve heard this line before. "We''ve been over this, Dad. I''m not giving up the arena."

    His mother came to stand next to him, one hand on his arm. "It''s just not worth it. They don''t appreciate what you do in there."

    "Mom, I win when I''m in there. That alone brings people in. The sponsors, they know who draws the crowds."

    Allen threw a cleaning cloth down on the table. "That''s just it, Dillon. They know who they want, and it''s not you." He turned and pointed at the dark television screen. "Do you know they didn''t even mention your name out loud? Not even when they were talking about the winners. The program just skipped right over you to the second-place finisher."

    A hollow feeling opened in Dillon''s stomach, and he felt a wave of vertigo. "I just¡­ the interview didn''t go so well, but I never thought¡­"

    His father slapped his hand on the table. "You never think! About what it takes, about what it costs. Do you think that just because we don''t approve of these events that we don''t know how they work? Your mother and I spend money every month on an advertising company for the restaurants. If we want to stay in business, we have to keep our name out there, and that means getting in front of the public and talking to them."

    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    The hollow feeling expanded rapidly, and he felt the floor drop out from under him. "But¡­ you never said¡­ you¡­," Words failed him, the familiar verbal paralysis stealing over his tongue and brain. It was just like being in front of a camera, only now it was his parents. He couldn¡¯t think of anything to say, and his mind raced like an engine in neutral.

    "Dillon, dear, it''s not just that we don''t want to see you hurt. We''ve taught you kids that whatever you put your hands to, you do everything you can to make it a success. You need to take your win and turn it into more. You''re not doing that."

    "It''s time to face facts, Dillon. Even though you may be a good driver, and you can win races, you don''t have what it takes to be a big success. The sooner you admit that the quicker you''ll be able to be happier in something else." He held up a hand. "I''m not saying you have to come work in the family business. The fact is, Danica has that under control. You just need to find something you can do where being in the public eye isn''t essential to being successful."

    Stung and hurt, Dillon dropped the cleaning cloth on the table and walked out of the building to his car. Standing at the door, he looked up at the night sky and clenched his fists. How come no one wants me to do what I want to do?

    ***

    ATSS Building, Denver, Colorado

    "What have you got for me, Eric?" Nico leaned back in his chair, smiling slightly at the man''s triumphant look on the video call screen.

    "I found you a driver. Not just any driver, mind you but one who drives like he''s racing. He''s not there to trade blows and shoot things up. He''s there to win."

    "Okay, so show me. Who are we talking about here?"

    A still photo replaced Eric''s view, showing a young man dressed in a driving jumpsuit and sitting inside a car. His face was intent on something in the distance.

    "This is Dillon Hodges. Amateur autoduellist and currently unsponsored. Lives here in Denver."

    "An autoduellist? I thought you said you found a racer."

    "That''s the thing. I watched a lot of this kid''s footage. He drives like a demon is on his tail. When you look at his stats, they don''t tell you the whole story about him. The vehicle kill count per contest is almost zero, damage output is low, and his audience rating is in the basement. But he wins, Nico. Wins on points and is usually in first place in any event that measures distance or laps." The picture was replaced by arena footage, and Eric continued.

    "I''ll send you the footage I watched, and I know you''ll see the same thing I saw. When he drives, he drives. Doesn''t care about lining up perfect shots or going for the kill. I bet his gunner is really frustrated, because the kid is constantly jockeying for position to move ahead rather than doing damage to his opponents. His style means we should mount most of his weapons in the back, because he''s got them eating his dust a lot of the time."

    "Speaking of the gunner, what about him?"

    Eric shrugged. "They¡¯re a team. If one goes, the other should go. The driver is going to be key to this thing, though."

    "Alright. I''ll take a look. Who else have you found?"

    "For now, it''s an open field. Lots of prospects, although none unique like the kid. The hype for this thing isn''t happening like the AADA planned, at least for now. Teams are turning down sponsorships because this is a short-term deal. They think this might even hurt their arena careers. If the brains behind this don''t pump some serious money into marketing, they may not get a lot of takers. That''s a good thing for us, because it gives us an edge. Several, in fact. No one is going to expect you to sponsor a team, and this kid competes in Division 3 or lower. Watch the footage and then let''s go recruit this kid. If you want to win, that is."

    Basher snorted and terminated the call. He switched over to his file storage and started pulling up the clips Eric uploaded. Running through them at twice normal speed, his trained eye saw almost immediately what his director of operations was talking about. Dillon drove fast and with purpose. He dodged shots, and his dodges usually left him in a better position than he had been in before.

    Still, he made himself look at the footage like the autoduellist he¡¯d been. Tactics hadn''t changed much since he''d been out, and he began to take notes while he watched. After several run-throughs, he sat back and steepled his fingers in front of his face.

    Okay, Eric''s right. I think he''s the driver we need. This rally isn''t going to be won in the first twenty minutes. They''ll be three days on the road for each leg. We need someone who can put us in a winning position and Dillon Hodges may be the one who can give us that with the way he drives. Nobody gets a good shot at him because they expect him to be lining up for a shot, not trying to increase his positioning. The only question is, what about his gunner? I can''t tell very much about him from this footage. We need to get him onboard too.

    He sent a confirmation message to Eric; Let''s get him. The gunner too. Set up a meeting.

    ***

    Dillon came into work at the restaurant the next day, expecting more of what happened last night. His parents were all business, however. Nothing more said about his career choices. When his phone chimed with a message, he glanced at the notification and almost deleted it. The sender wasn''t anyone he knew, which usually meant junk or political messages. The lunch rush was nearly over, so he stepped out back and checked his phone.

    The message lacked the usual flashy graphics trying to sell him something. The logo was the acronym ''ATSS'' superimposed over a crosshair, and it was short.

    Dillon, we''d like to meet with you and Samuel to discuss sponsorship in an upcoming autoduelling contest. Please let us know if you''re interested.

    The young driver nearly dropped the phone in surprise. His mind raced while he tried to think of what upcoming events someone might sponsor him in. And who was this ATSS, anyway? With trembling fingers, he punched the acronym into the search bar.

    The first result was for ''Advanced Tactical Software Solutions'', a company here in Denver. The webpage was the usual corporate nonsense, all about their mission statement and what they were committed to. He did find it interesting that they primarily talked about their government contracts and support to the defense industry. The pictures behind the words were all military ground and air vehicles, and he began to wonder if this was the right page. The logo in the corner matched the logo on his message, so he figured he''d better check further.

    Clicking on the ''About Us'' brought him to a page with more corporate-speak, and after that was the list of company officers. And when he saw the picture of the CEO, nothing else on the page mattered.

    Basher Battaglia wants to sponsor me! How does he even know who I am? Has he been to any of my events?

    "Dillon! Where are you? We need to restock from the freezer."

    Distractedly, he said over his shoulder, "Just a minute, Dad. I gotta take this."

    With trembling fingers, he typed his affirmative reply. He didn''t even think of talking to Sammy first. This was too big to wait on. His pulse pounded in his ears while he waited for the response.

    Yes. We''re interested. When can we meet?

    He sighed in relief, a wave of dizziness rushing over him. This was something they''d talked about for a long time. They''d debated the various companies and what kind of sponsorships would be offered. Now, this was finally their chance at the big league.

    The reply came back before he could put the phone away. He held his breath, the half-second it took the phone to display the response seeming like an eternity.

    Tomorrow, 2pm at our headquarters. The address is on our webpage. Bring driving gear for a simulation run.

    For the next few hours at work, everyone had a hard time getting Dillon''s attention. And he smiled often, for no apparent reason.

 Chapter 4

    <h2>Chapter 4</h2>

    Advanced Tactical Software Solutions Building, Denver, Colorado

    The next day, Dillon and Sammy pulled into the parking lot in front of the ATSS building. The guard at the gate checked their names against the approved access list and gave them temporary visitor badges. The slender pieces of embossed plastic hung around their necks on a cloth cord and putting it on made the butterflies in Dillon¡¯s stomach multiply. Conversely, it made the normally verbose Sammy quiet and subdued.

    After they¡¯d parked, the two men looked at each other, eyes wide. "We''re here," Dillon said in a low voice. "They had our names, and we''ve got visitor badges, and we''re going to do this!"

    "Yeah, man. It ain''t no joke and it ain''t a dream." Sammy rubbed at his mouth with one hand. "We''re gonna be in the big events now, man. No more cheap-ass pots, no more patchwork repairs on the car."

    Dillon put up a hand. "Let''s not take a victory lap just yet. They didn''t say they were going to sponsor us, just that they wanted to talk with us. And we have to do this simulation thing. It''s part of the interview, I bet. Guess they didn''t see everything they wanted in the recordings."

    His gunner put out a hand, and Dillon gripped it hard. "We show ''em what we got, Dill, just like in the arena. You drive, I shoot."

    "And we take it all in the end. Let''s do this, Sammy."

    They had just gotten their gear bag out of the back of the car when Sammy''s face went pale. He turned and vomited briefly into the bushes that lined the lot. "Just nerves," he grumbled at Dillon''s raised eyebrows. "I''m fine now."

    The guard at the entrance smiled at them and motioned them to a set of stuffed chairs. "I''ll call up and let them know you''re here. An escort will be down to get you."

    They sat, the enormity of the situation starting Dillon''s mind spinning. This building, with its sleek gray and chrome decor, was so far beyond his experience. The people coming and going seemed inconsequential to the large media display screen hanging over the lobby. It cycled through a series of images, armored cars, helicopters, light tanks, even an airship. None of them were autoduelling vehicles, however. His anxiety took another hit as he realized that.

    A tall, brown haired man in jeans and a leather jacket strode towards him. He held out his hand when he approached. "Gentlemen, Eric Williamson. I''m the Director of Field Operations for ATSS. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

    Dillon managed to get a ''Thank you for the chance'' out, despite a throat suddenly gone dry. Sammy only nodded.

    Williamson looked over at their duffels and said, "You brought your driving gear? Good. Bring that along and we''ll find a place to put it until you need it. This way."

    The two of them hurried to keep up with the long-legged stride while they were led further into the building, then to an elevator bank, and finally up two floors. The elevator doors opened onto a scene that looked to Dillon out of a science fiction movie.

    Most of what he could see was taken up by a room full of computers and a mockup of a car. It faced a blank wall, although he saw a set of projectors on the ceiling. Cables ran everywhere, and the hum of electrical equipment filled the room, even though there was no one currently using the stuff.

    Their guide led them past all this, although he motioned for them to drop their bags here. "We''ll be back this way," was all he said.

    A corridor took them on a twisting, turning dive deeper into the building, although Dillon was pretty sure they were now headed back towards the front. His estimate proved true when Eric opened the door into a conference room, its huge windows overlooking the front parking lot. The occupants in the room grabbed his attention quickly enough, however. He recognized Nico Battaglia before the man stood up from his seat at the head of the table. A young woman was seated next to him, although she barely looked up when they entered, her attention on the laptop in front of her.

    "Gentlemen, Mr. Battaglia, CEO and president of Advanced Tactical Software Solutions. Sir, Mr. Dillon Hodges and Mr. Samuel Casey, as requested."

    His mind numb, Dillon walked forward on auto pilot, holding out his hand. The larger-than-life figure enfolded his in a firm but gentle handshake. Sammy got the same, and then they were motioned into chairs at the table.

    Eric took the empty seat next to Nico, and the two of them sat next to him. The former autoduellist smiled and winked. "I know, I know. Still can''t believe you''re here, right? I remember when I was young and an amateur, and my first sponsorship. Heady stuff, right? Well, put your minds at ease. We''re going to talk like normal people here, and we''ll talk about things you know, like racing and dueling."

    "What kinda deal are we talking about, Mr. Basher?" Sammy leaned forward; eyes bright. "What are your team colors?"

    "In a minute. This isn''t going to be your normal kind of sponsorship. There are a few things that we need to go over." He tapped on the control panel sitting on the table in front of him, and the display screen at the far end of the room lit up. An image filled the screen, that of a grinning metallic skull backed by a set of playing cards. The caption below it read, ''Dead Man''s Run''.

    The CEO gestured at the screen with a broad grin. "This, gentlemen, is the contest we''re looking to compete in. The AADA is running it, of course. Fully sanctioned event. It''ll be a nationwide contest, and you could be part of the team representing Colorado and the Mountain West."

    The image changed to show a map of Colorado, Deseret, Wyoming, Montana, and the Dakotas. A route traced in purple ran from Denver to Salt Lake City, up to and then across Montana, and ended in western South Dakota. Red circles surrounded certain cities along the way.

    "This is what''s known as a road rally, gentlemen. It''s a race from checkpoint to checkpoint, overcoming obstacles along the way. At each overnight stop, vehicles will have the chance for repairs and resupply of ammunition and other expendables. At the end of each leg, there''ll be an arena event for additional points. The endpoint is near Sturgis, South Dakota, where there will be a grand finale event to top all the others. Each city that is competing in the contest will sponsor a team, composed of as many driver/gunner pairs that qualify. All competitors on a team will work together until the last leg is completed. The finale event in Sturgis will pit the survivors against each other in a winner-take-all event."

    Dillon barely heard what the former autoduelling champion said after the announcement of the rally. His mind was already tracing the route on the map, calculating times and distances. He didn''t hear Sammy''s laugh and scornful reply.

    "A race? That''s what you''re pushing? What the hell, man? We don''t race. We get into the arena, and we win! The arena where the action is, not some highway drive to Nowheresville. What kind of bullshit sponsorship is this?"

    Eric leaned forward, ready to defend his boss'' honor, yet Nico put a hand on his arm. Then, smiling slightly at the gunner, he said, "It''s a full sponsorship, Samuel. We supply the vehicle, mechanics, and all expendables. All you need to do is drive, shoot, and win."

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    Sammy put a hand on Dillon''s shoulder. "You hear that, Dill? He ain''t said what happens after the race. They''re just gonna cut us loose or what? And what happens if we lose?"

    Dillon started slightly at the touch, his focus on the map broken. "Lose? We won''t lose, Sammy."

    "Damned straight, but it''s not for us, Dill. These guys are looking for patsies to take a chance on a one-time thing. We ain''t gonna be their guinea pigs on this. Come on, let''s go." He stood up from his chair, pausing when Dillon didn''t get up.

    The young driver looked back and forth from the screen to the head of the table. "You haven''t said what the prize is. For winning the whole thing."

    Nico''s smile broadened. "Ten million dollars."

    Dillon could swear his heart skipped a couple of beats, and the roar in his ears nearly drowned out Sammy''s response. "How much of that do we get?"

    Eric answered this, a smug look on his face. "If you take first place, each of you will get five hundred thousand dollars. Lesser place results will get correspondingly lower compensation."

    "Five hund¨C," Sammy choked off a laugh. "That ain''t even ten percent! And you guys pocket the rest, of course. Just like a corporate suit. We take all the risks, and you take all the money."

    Dillon tapped the table. "That is a pretty small payout, considering the pot."

    Eric waved a hand in the air. "Considering that ATSS is putting up the vehicle and all the logistics, as well as our name, we consider it a fair offer, Dillon. Additionally, we will pay for one year''s Gold Cross membership, commencing immediately upon contract signature."

    Turning to look at his gunner, Dillon said eagerly, "You hear that, Sammy? That''s worth more than just getting paid. We could work some tougher events with that kind of insurance."

    "Yeah, and what happens when the year is up? Back to the small-time stuff we''ve been doing. No, Dill. I told you, this ain''t for us. Let''s get out of here." He reached down to tug at his driver''s arm, a look of dismay crossing his face when the other man didn''t move.

    "I want to hear more, Sammy. I¡­ really think we need to consider this."

    Throwing his hands up in the air, Sammy snapped, "You stay then! I ain''t listening to any more of their crap." He turned to go, stopping at the doorway of the conference room with a confused look on his face.

    "Eric, please escort Samuel to the exit. Let the lab know we won''t be using the simulator, and then rejoin us. Dillon can remain and ask his questions."

    The tall man frowned and left with Sammy in tow. Basher smiled back at Dillon. "Well now, it''s just us. What else can I tell you about the rally to get you to sign on?"

    Dillon looked up from the tabletop. "Five year''s Gold Cross membership. And a three-year sponsorship deal after, no matter the results."

    The big man''s eyes went wide. "That''s¡­ quite the counteroffer. What makes you think you deserve something like that?" To his right, the woman looked up from her screen, eyes narrowed.

    The young driver swallowed heavily. "Sammy and I are pretty damn good on the amateur circuit, or you wouldn''t have come to us. Still, we compete in Class 3 or below. The pot for this event puts it way above that. If you could have found someone at that level to compete for you, then you wouldn''t be talking to us. So, we''re your last shot at getting a team into this event."

    Basher laughed. "Nice analysis, but your aim is off. You are our first choice, and congratulations on that. However, you''re also not our only option. There are other crews out there we can interview if you decline, or your price is too high. Or if your gunner walks away."

    Dillon let out a shaky breath. "Sammy runs hot. I can talk him around, although you have to give me something to work with. He really wants that sponsorship deal."

    "And what do you want, Dillon?"

    He looked over at the map for several seconds. When he spoke, his voice was low. "I want to drive. I want to compete in something big, where I can prove that I''m not just a step above Killer Kart night."

    The two people at the head of the table looked at each other, and the woman turned her laptop screen to him. Nico read it and frowned slightly, tapping his fingers on the table. "A post-event sponsorship is a big ask, Dillon. Even just a year. ATSS isn''t in that business, and it''s not just simply slapping our logo on your car. I''m afraid it''s far easier to increase the amount of your winnings or the Gold Cross membership. I''m willing to put another two hundred and fifty on the table for each of you, either in winnings or membership fees."

    The young man gave him a weak smile. "Then I''m in. And I''ll convince Sammy. How long do I have?"

    "We have to submit our paperwork three days after the announcement. This gives you at least five days to get him onboard. And in the meantime, we''ll have to start interviewing our other crews, just in case you''re unsuccessful." He stood, offering his hand.

    Dillon stood also, reaching over to shake the former autoduellist''s hand. Once again, he marveled at the controlled strength in that massive grasp. "I''ll do my best, sir. I really want this opportunity."

    Motioning to the woman, Nico said, "Kayla, if you would escort Dillon to the lobby? He''s got a lot of convincing to do."

    The young woman rose and headed for the door, tossing a "Follow me" over her shoulder.

    She remained silent all the way to the elevator, pausing while he grabbed his duffel. While they waited for the car to arrive, he felt the need to say something, anything. "So, um, you work for ATSS?"

    With raised eyebrows, she tapped her corporate badge on the lanyard around her neck. He felt his face flush and stammered, "Yeah, I guess you do. What do you do?"

    The elevator dinged and he jumped. When the doors opened and she went in, he heard her say, "Weapons research and programming."

    "Oh¡­ that''s¡­ um, pretty cool, I bet. You get to play with all the stuff before it goes out."

    The woman crossed her arms and gave him an exasperated look. "Eric was right. You really don''t know how to talk to people, do you? In a non-competition situation, I mean. You were plenty confident when you were playing that counteroffer, but now¡­ it''s like your brain went on vacation. Just like in the post-event interviews."

    The heat in his face grew and he hung his head. "You''ve seen those? And you guys still want to sponsor us?"

    The doors opened to the lobby, and she motioned him out. "We can get you some media training. Teach you what to say. Most of the time, you''re just repeating the same phrases in different ways. No, we want you guys because of your driving. The question I want answered is, do you know why we want you? I mean you, specifically."

    A little taken aback at the personal attention, he shook his head. "I thought you wanted us as a crew."

    "Well, we need a crew, and the two of you are linked together. Think long and hard about that, Dillon. What is it you bring to the table that made you our first choice?" She stepped back into the elevator without looking back at him.

    Sammy was waiting for him in the car, his gaze focused on something in the distance. Even when Dillon tossed his duffel in the trunk, he remained where he was. He remained silent on the drive back to their garage, not even looking at his driver.

    At the garage, Sammy got out first and went to open the trunk. He was standing there, duffel in hand when Dillon came around the car.

    "Come on, Sammy. It''s a good deal, even if it isn''t what we thought it was."

    "It''s a good deal for you, Dill. Not for me." He hefted the bag and turned around.

    "It''s good for both of us. Look, Basher is bumping up the winnings by¨C"

    "No. I''m not doing this. I''m not part of this anymore, Dill."

    Confused, Dillon moved to stand in front of the man. Sammy''s face was resigned, and there was a hint of anger in his eyes. "Not doing what anymore?"

    "Not playing second fiddle to you. I''m tired of you running the event and I have to take whatever you leave me. Tired of low stats and a crappy reputation. Besides, we know they want you, not me."

    Completely confused now, Dillon asked, "What do you mean, they want me? They asked for both of us to come in. And low stats? We''ve got the best win-loss ratio in Colorado, and we''ve never had a car shot out from under us. That''s not crap and you know it."

    "You know what your problem is, Dill? You''re not a team player. Well, I''m not on the team anymore, so I don''t have to put up with you." He pushed past Dillon and headed for the street, leaving the parking lot behind.

    ***

    Kayla sat at her desk, watching the two men while they left the parking lot via the security cameras. Their body language made it obvious the crew was breaking up, if not broken already. She shut off the feed and pulled up the specs for the vehicle she was designing for the Dead Man''s Run. Despite her earlier misgivings, this had been a real challenge for her, and she was leaning into it with all her focus. Most of the data they used previously was for an open field battle for the military. A road rally wasn''t the same thing by a long shot. It would be all forward and rear combat at high speeds, with the occasional side shot at someone who pulled alongside. She''d needed to build a lot of new simulations to come up with the data to validate the design. These pushed the limits of their targeting software, and it was a true challenge to come up with solutions to work around them.

    And now it was all going to go down the drain. Without a crew to operate the car, ATSS wouldn''t be able to show off what they could do. What she could do. Oh sure, they could probably get another crew, but nobody drove like Dillon did. All her work, her ingenuity, would be lost because of one man.

    The obvious solution was to find a gunner somewhere else. A person who not only knew weapons and knew the tactics for using them. For instance, someone who''d studied hours of sims and devised a playbook for different situations on the open road. Someone who could work with Dillon.

    I just have to tolerate Dillon for about two weeks, give or take. I can do that.

 Chapter 5

    <h2>Chapter 5</h2>

    Dillon worked on Sammy for the next two days, trying to find a chink in the armor. He bought him lunch one day, and then drinks the next. He talked about the possibilities the rally could open up afterwards. Their names would be known across multiple states, if not multiple nations.

    "Come on, man. We get to compete in Deseret, Idaho, and Montana. It''s free publicity! And once they see how we win, we''ll get calls for arena sponsorship."

    The other man grunted noncommittally and finished his beer. The young driver raised his hand to signal the bartender, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He looked back over at his former teammate.

    "Look, Dill. It was a good run. We had some good fights. I always knew the score with you, and this had to happen someday. Like I said, you''re not a team player. Just leave it. We''re done. Don''t talk to me no more." He got up off his stool and headed for the door.

    It was as if things were starting to unravel inside him, with each step that Sammy took towards the door. One part of his brain screamed to go after him and make him stay, and another part felt relief. He''d always felt some tension with Sammy, whenever they¡¯d clashed over his driving. Those arguments always gone away in the arena, hadn''t they? Have I really been ignoring how he felt this whole time?

    The philosophy of their feelings fell apart the next second, when he remembered that he needed a gunner to compete in the Dead Man''s Run. And without a gunner, he couldn''t even compete in the arena. Oh, he could join the Killer Kart league, with peanuts for payout and laughable competition. Now, Basher wouldn''t sponsor him. And he couldn''t go back to the arena. He was stuck.

    ***

    Nico hung up the phone and looked at Eric and Kayla. "That was Dillon. Samuel has quit the team and nothing he¡¯s been able to do or say will bring him back. The guy even accused Dillon of not being a team player. The boy is pretty upset, and I guess he has a right to be. He''s watching the best deal he''s ever seen go down the drain."

    Eric waggled his head from side to side. "Guy''s not wrong. When the kid is driving, that''s all he thinks about. I was wondering what made the gunner stick around. I¡¯d hoped the prize money would be keep him around, and that he''d jump at the chance, but I guess he''s had enough."

    The big man stood and walked around the table to stand between the other two. "Well, that leaves us in a jam. No chance of finding a replacement gunner at this late date, is there?"

    His director shook his head. "Everyone¡¯s snapping up the best teams for this thing. We¡¯d have to start looking outside Denver, or hell, even outside the state to find someone. And then try to get them here in time."

    "That tears it, then. The rules are clear. We need a two-person crew, driver and gunner, not just a driver."

    Pulling out his phone, Eric said, "I''ll let our second choice know then."

    Kayla put her hand out, palm facing him. "Hold on a second. I have an idea. It''s going to sound crazy, and we all agree Dillon is our best driver for the rally, right?"

    The two men nodded, and her father asked, "How are you proposing to get Samuel back? Because if Dillon couldn''t¡­"

    "No, not that. That guy didn''t want to be a part of this anyway. No, what I''m proposing¡­ Dad, I want to take his place. I want to be the gunner for the team."

    Nico''s eyebrows shot up, and his gaze quickly switched to his director of operations, who was choking back his laughter. "I don''t see what''s so funny about Kayla putting her life in danger, Eric."

    Waving a hand, face red, Eric said, "Same blood, Nico. Same blood."

    She leaned forward to her father and put her outstretched hand on his. "I designed the car. I know the weapons. I''ve run the sims on the expected competition, and I know the numbers. More importantly, I know our targeting system inside and out. I can do this, Dad."

    He grabbed her hand, and knelt next to her, putting their eyes level with each other. "Kayla, this isn''t like taking a car out for an operational test. You''ve never been in combat before. You''ve never had anyone shoot at you with live weapons at full power."

    "I''m putting together a solid design. I''ve run multiple Monte Carlo simulations on the best armor and weapons layouts for this kind of event. We''re going to be the best-armed, best protected car out there. The data supports that conclusion. You know me, Dad. I don¡¯t settle for halfway measures."

    Her father looked her in the eye. "You''ve never shot at anyone before. I mean, shot to kill. It''s not like shooting at drones out on the test range, or anything in the lab."

    "No, it''s exactly like that, Dad. Everything I do is through our software. They''re targets on a screen, just like anything else."

    Basher looked at his friend, eyes pleading. "Eric, help me out here. She can''t do this!"

    The tall man shrugged. "What do you expect, Nico? She''s your daughter. You brought her up with a joystick in one hand. And as a matter of fact, I think she could do it." He paused. "If she knows she has your support."

    The former autoduellist looked back to his daughter. Memories flashed through his head, of her as a little girl playing with her first computer. Her first test run with live weapons, and the huge grin when she''d put on the ATSS combat suit. In a low voice, he tried his last argument. "We can back out . We haven''t committed any serious funds to this yet. No one will know we were going to field a team."

    Kayla leaned over and raised her arms for a hug. He automatically wrapped one huge arm around her slim figure, and she spoke softly into his ear, "We''ll know, Dad. We''ll know we stepped away from the biggest opportunity this company ever had. I can do this. Please."

    Slowly, he patted her on the back. "I know you can, and I hate that thought. And I hate myself for hating it."

    ***

    Dillon walked into Nico''s office hesitantly. He hadn''t expected to be called back in after he admitted he couldn''t convince Sammy to return. Nico was standing by the window, staring at the skyscrapers that enclosed the Tech Center. "Have a seat, Dillon. We need to talk about the rally."

    With butterflies in his stomach, Dillon sat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk. After a few seconds, Nico came to join him. He sat in the other chair, next to Dillon instead of behind his desk. Leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, he asked, "You said before you wanted to drive in a big competition. How come you don''t join one of the racing circuits, or enroll in the Can-Am and race that way? Why autoduelling?"

    Fighting the urge to rub his palms on his pants, Dillon said, "Running around in circles without anything else going on is boring. Speed up, slow down. Drift left, drift right. Your options are limited. In an arena event, there''s so many ways to maneuver. You have to be constantly aware of the changing conditions, of the different moves your opponent makes. It''s so unpredictable and that''s what makes it exciting."

    The other man nodded. "I know what you mean. Watching for your moment, not knowing what little factor can give you that moment¡­ that''s the best feeling when it comes around. For me, it felt like a puzzle piece clicking into place. You''re still forgetting an element, Dillon. Do you know what I mean?"

    Hanging his head, he nodded. "My gunner."

    "That''s right. A good gunner can open up all sorts of opportunities for you, and he can do even more if you set him up for the right shot. He''s not just there to put holes in the other guy''s car. It''s an element you''ve been ignoring, Dillon. Well, you can''t do that anymore."

    It took a few moments for the words to sink in. "Anymore? You mean, you got Sammy back? Or another gunner? Who did you find?"

    "We''ll get to that. I need your commitment to being part of a team, Dillon. You can''t win this rally by just driving. Out there, on the highways and backroads, you''re going to run into threats you can''t just drive around. Frankly, there''s going to be some obstacles you''ll have to shoot your way through. And for that, you and your gunner have to work together to survive."

    Leaning forward, the young man said, "I will. I can. I want this, sir. I''m tired of the small-time arena events. I want to learn what I need to do to compete in the big leagues."

    "Let''s get through the rally first, okay? Now, I''ve been talking like you''re still part of a crew. You can be¡­ if you accept the gunner we found for you."

    "Not Sammy?"

    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

    Basher shook his head firmly. "Not Sammy. He made it very clear he didn''t want to be part of this. Since you couldn''t convince him to come back, we weren''t even going to try." He paused for a moment, exhaled, and continued. "We have an ATSS person who''s willing to be your gunner. If you don''t want them, or you two can''t work together as a team, then we''re going to have to go with another choice."

    Dillon was out of his chair in an instant. "Sir, give me a shot. I can do this, and I can work with them. Please!"

    Gesturing at the door, the CEO said, "Let''s go down to the lab and meet them. Then we''ll stick you in the simulator to see what you two can do together."

    ***

    They arrived at the same lab from his last visit. Nico motioned to a door on one side of the room. "There''s a jumpsuit and helmet in there. Should fit. This is just a familiarization run, and if things work out, we''ll fit you for your own gear."

    Dillon nodded and went to change. He dressed quickly, up to the helmet. It displayed the ATSS logo on both sides, and his fingers trembled when he put it on. Please, don''t let me screw this up. He wasn''t sure who he was praying to, since he wasn''t particularly religious, and it felt like the right thing to do.

    Nico was sitting at a computer, tapping in on the keyboard. The wall screen mirrored his display, and they watched while he set up the sim. "We''re going to simulate an open highway, just like you''ll be driving on for the rally. This won''t be like an arena fight, so keep your options open."

    Dillon nodded, his mouth dry. He approached the mockup vehicle and ran his hands over the door. Unlike a real car, this door didn''t open. Probably simplified the construction, he realized. He hopped up on the open window and stuck his legs inside, following with the rest of his body. The seat was back all the way, allowing easy access past the M-shaped yoke on the steering column. He adjusted the seat and the controls, his confidence growing with every motion.

    Finally settled, he looked around the mockup. It was filled with cables and devices, and there wasn''t a whole lot of padding. Since they weren''t likely to be bouncing around or getting hit with high-velocity rounds, it wasn''t needed. The dashboard and the controls looked generic, without the personalization you would find in a true combat vehicle. The only true difference he could see is that the gunner''s seat was behind and to his right, in the centerline of the car. This wasn''t a mockup of a regular car; it was one dedicated to competing.

    The dashboard came to life when Basher finished the startup sequence, and Dillon took note of the various displays and controls that were now active. His weapons display showed linked machine guns in the rear and a Javelin cannon up front. What really got his attention was the turreted flamethrower, however.

    Leaning out the window, he called out. "Why a turret-mounted flamethrower?"

    "I''ll let your gunner explain that, considering she designed the vehicle."

    A motion behind him got his attention. A slender, jump-suited figure was sliding into the vehicle via the window on the other side. Once they were in, he saw it was the brunette that he''d made a fool of himself in front of in the elevator.

    "You''re¡­ you''re the new gunner?"

    She gave him a cool look. "Yes. What of it?"

    "Um¡­ nothing. I thought you were some kind of executive, that''s all."

    Her lip curled in the beginning of a sneer. "I am. I run the company''s weapons test division." She turned made her way into the gunner''s seat before he could respond, however not before he noticed the name tag on her chest read ¡®Kayla Battaglia¡¯.

    Shaking his head and resolving to keep his mouth shut, Dillon looked straight ahead. Just drive. Don''t ask her about the flamethrower. Don¡¯t ask her about her name. In fact, don''t say anything else. Don''t do anything to screw up this opportunity.

    The projection on the wall in front of the car flickered to life, showing an open road. It was a four-lane divided highway, pavement cracked and rough in places. Outside most major cities, these were the typical quality of road you would find.

    Basher''s voice came in over his headset. "We''re going to start with a simple scenario, Dillon. Open road with one opponent. Just so you can get a feel for how the car handles and what it can do. Kayla, I''m doing a random mix on the scenario parameters, so you won''t know what to expect. Remember, you two. This is where you start to learn to work together like a team."

    "Okay, Dad," Kayla said from behind him.

    "Wait. He''s your father?"

    The steering wheel vibrated under Dillon''s hands, and he wasn¡¯t sure if it was the simulator or his own nervousness. He completely forgot what he''d just asked, as the image on the screen began to move them forward. He put his foot on the accelerator and took them up to fifty miles per hour. Given the shape of the road and his lack of familiarity with the car, he felt that was safe enough.

    He learned two things very quickly about the car. It accelerated more slowly than his own, and the handling was crisper, although there was more momentum. The car definitely weighed more than his. "How much armor is this thing carrying?"

    "We''re simulating a Class Six car. That''s the maximum allowed for the Dead Man''s Run."

    Class Six? Mine is only a Class Three. This has double the armor and should have way more weapons. "If it''s Class Six, why do we have such a light weapons loadout?"

    Kayla spoke up from behind him. "I''m still finalizing the build. You''re right, we''re going to have more than this. Probably another cannon in the rear, at the least. I wanted to see how you drove before I finalized things."

    Dillon navigated his way down the simulated road, avoiding the worst of the potholes and buckled pavement. "Will everything stay mounted front and rear? Besides the flamethrower, that is."

    "Yes. The computer sims show the majority of the threats will come from those two directions, especially since you don''t have a lot of room to maneuver. I thought about dropped weapons, but I decided on dealing maximum damage instead. The turret and our sidearms will allow us to deal with anyone who gets alongside."

    Any response he was going to give died when his rear camera showed something coming up fast behind them. "Contact rear."

    "On it. Keep it as steady as you can."

    "I''ll try. We have a lot of rough road ahead. You want me to take the bumps?"

    "No. For the real thing, the data from the sims show we''re going to need to protect our tires and suspension over the long run. Breaking down in the middle of nowhere isn''t a winning strategy. Just let me know if you''re going to make a major shift and which direction."

    He nodded to himself and concentrated on driving. Although Basher said there was only one opponent, he also figured there might be some surprises in the mix. He fully expected another car to appear when they were fully engaged with the first guy. Be part of the team, Dillon. There¡¯s no finish line here, so positioning is more important than being in front. It was hard to suppress the urge to open up the throttle and go. Even though it was virtual, that open, empty road in front of him made him hunger to go faster. An opponent who couldn¡¯t catch him couldn¡¯t kill him.

    The mockup vibrated when his gunner fired the machine guns, and it felt like he was back in his car for a moment. Seconds later, a dull thump came from the back. The rear end fishtailed slightly, although Dillon got it back under control with ease, and he marveled at how accurately they simulated the damage on the car. "Did they hit us?"

    "Yeah. They got a Jackhammer mounted up front. He''s going to try to make us spin out of control, I think."

    Glancing at the road ahead, the young driver pressed his foot down on the accelerator. "He''s going to have to catch us first."

    The machine guns rattled again, and Kayla let an exultant ''Yes'' slip out. Then she said, "Are you sure you want to speed up? A hit at this speed could be really bad."

    "I¡¯ve got the feel for the car now. And I''m not going to stay at this speed. Just be ready to go to the turret when I tell you. Maybe even the front guns, if I surprise him enough."

    "Whatever you say." Her voice was carefully neutral, like she was measuring his every word.

    He slowly took them up to seventy miles per hour, deftly dodging back and forth to avoid potholes and throw off his opponent¡¯s aim. Kayla fired a few more times, working to adjust her timing to match his maneuvers. She didn¡¯t hit very often, and she also didn¡¯t complain about it. And that¡¯s a big change from Sammy already. Maybe this won¡¯t be so bad.

    They hit seventy and he lined up on a big pothole, and then dodged quickly to the left, braking as he went. The computer car, trying to keep up, was caught off guard. Their back end was nearly level with his front when the computer noticed the pothole. The other car began to brake, and Dillon shouted, "Now" at the same time Kayla let loose with the flamethrower.

    Wreathed in flames and smoke, the computer-controlled car began to fishtail while it slowed. Unable to see the approaching pothole anymore, it hit the damaged section of road, still going almost forty.

    The rear of the computer car leaped into the air, and then the whole vehicle turned sideways and rolled. Dillon continued braking, adjusting to bring the front-mounted guns into play. Kayla let off timed bursts, hammering the underside of the car while it rolled down the highway. It traveled less than fifty feet when it exploded.

    With a huge grin, he turned his head to look back at his new gunner. She was grinning too, and they shared in the glory of the combined effort. Then the screen blanked out and the displays in the mockup died.

    Basher said over the radio, "Nice going, you two. Of course, that was just one opponent. I''m resetting everything and this time, there''ll be three cars out there. Let me know when you''re ready."

    "We got this," Dillon said over his shoulder. "Nice shooting."

    "Nice driving. Let''s show my dad what we''ve got. Maybe we have what it takes to make a crew."

    Dillon''s gaze had already returned to the front before her second use of the word ''dad'' sank in. Then he didn''t have time for anything more, because everything came to life and there was a car on the screen, leading them by about three car lengths and already shooting.

    ***

    An hour later, the sweat-soaked crew was sitting on the floor in the lab, sucking down water from squeeze bottles. Their jumpsuits were unzipped to the waist, and their hair plastered to their heads with sweat. Basher sat at his computer, paging through the results.

    "Well, I have to say that you have lived up to our driving expectations, Dillon." He turned to face the pair. "I''d say you were a natural. Smooth control of the wheel, good energy management, and a nearly supernatural sense of where to be. Pretty good at keeping track of everything on the road around you, aren''t you?"

    Dillon smiled weakly. "It''s my one superpower."

    "Now that''s the kind of thing you should be saying in those post-event interviews. Never mind, though. We''ll get to that in due time. How do you like working with Kayla? Forget for a moment that she''s my daughter or that she''s sitting within hitting distance of you."

    She shook her head. "I don''t have the energy, Dad."

    The young man gave a tired smile. "Best I''ve worked with. Sammy was a pretty good shot, but he got impatient. Couldn''t wait for the right shot; he just wanted to take a shot right now." He looked over at her. "You''re like a spider in her web. Waiting for people to put themselves in your crosshairs."

    She blushed and took a quick swallow of her drink. "A lot of that was the software predicting their moves, and you telling me what you were going to do. Then I just anticipated their response, and bang."

    "Well, the two of you certainly proved to me that in the simulator you can get along and work like a team. What about when the rubber hits the road?" The former autoduellist''s face was unreadable, his eyes narrowed while he studied them.

    Kayla''s face flushed again, and there was fire in her eyes. "Come on, Dad. We took down everything you threw at us. Even at four to one odds."

    Dillon put a hand up, and she subsided. "He has a point. This is just a sim. A very good one, I''ll grant you. I could drive in here all day." He turned to look at the CEO. "You want to know if we can do this for real. If we have what it takes to not just survive, but win. I''m good with my gunner, sir. These sims are the closest we''re going to get to being in actual combat, and they got us damn close. I think we can win this thing."

    Despite Kayla¡¯s face lighting up at the praise, her father''s face remained closed while he looked at Dillon straight in the eyes. The young man felt the weight of that gaze, and he returned the look with equanimity. After several seconds, the CEO nodded. "Just what I thought you would say. Okay, then. If you two want to be a team, we''ve got a team."

 Chapter 6

    <h2>Chapter 6</h2>

    Dillon was just getting out of the shower when the knock sounded on his apartment door. That firm, no nonsense knock was either the police or Danica. Pulling on a T-shirt and shorts, he ran to answer the door.

    His sister pushed past him into the apartment, dressed for work. "You called, I''m here. You sounded really worried on the phone. I have to get to the diner tonight, so is this a Mom and Dad thing, or something else? Cause if it''s them, I need to be prepared for the usual lectures."

    He ushered her inside, smiling at her tone. His big sister was someone he could always count on to listen to him. "It''s not a Mom and Dad thing yet. No, I just wanted to tell you; I''m going to compete in that rally. The Dead Man''s Run."

    Her smile was genuine when she hugged him. "That''s great news. Did Sammy finally come to his senses?"

    "No. He''s gone for good, I think. The company supplied a gunner. She''s pretty good, too. And we clicked in the car. Better than I have with anyone else."

    "She? And you two clicked? My, my, my. Tell me more." She sat on the arm of the couch, a small smile spreading over her face.

    A blush spread over his cheeks. "It''s not like that. She''s a good shot and knows her stuff. And she listens to me."

    "What''s her name?"

    "Kayla."

    "Is she cute?"

    "Danica! Are you even listening to me? We''re a team in an autoduel event. It''s not about how cute she is or whether she''s Basher''s daughter."

    His sister''s eyes opened wide. "Oh my. The boss''s daughter. Aiming high, aren''t we?" She punched his shoulder lightly. "And why not?"

    "Danica!" This time the name came out slightly shrill. "Will you listen to me! Forget about Kayla. I told him I thought we could win."

    Shrugging, she settled herself more comfortably on the couch. "So? I think you can, too."

    He leaned back against the wall, hands in his hair. Staring at the ceiling, he pronounced the next words like they were his doom. "I told Basher Battaglia I could win a competition, in a car he''s sponsoring, for a ten-million-dollar prize."

    When his sister didn''t respond, he looked down at her. She was only smiling that smile, the one he''d seen a hundred times before when she was encouraging him onward.

    "Danica, he''s sponsoring our team and providing the vehicle. He''s got mechanics, weapons, ammunition¡­ We''re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars he''s spending, and he¡¯s expecting to win millions!" He trailed off and sank to the floor. In a small voice, he asked "What if I can''t do it?"

    In a soft voice, she said, "I know you can do it. And you know you can do it, too, and you''re afraid to admit to yourself that you can. Don''t be afraid of success, Dillon. Believe it or not, that''s what mom and dad have been trying to teach you all these years."

    He stared at her, fears momentarily forgotten. "When did you get to be a psychologist?"

    She stood, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "I was our bartender for a long time. Still do it sometimes. You get to learn a lot about people that way. I gotta head out to work, Dillon. Go out there and race that race, brother. Show them you got what it takes to win it all."

    Standing and moving next to his sister, he put a hand on her shoulder before opening the door. "Thanks, Dani."

    She kissed him on the cheek, her eyes serious. "Just drive, Dillon. Let the boss and his daughter worry about everything else. You just drive your way back to us, alive."

    ***

    Eric sat in his office, multiple windows open on his triple-monitor setup. Their glow reflected in the windows, nighttime settling across the city of Denver. Despite the lights glowing in the distance, the lean man had no attention for them. The screen in front of him showed the map of the road rally, aerial images of the final destination, and several tabs worth of information about the various states they¡¯d be driving through. He''d been trying to make sense of a nagging question for hours.

    Why Sturgis? Why some backwater has-been of a place that wasn''t even a home for racers? They could have picked almost any other place in the country to put the finish at. There aren''t even good roads there anymore.

    Leaning back in frustration, he rubbed his tired eyes. Ever since Nico gave him the full particulars, this one detail kept setting off alarms in his head. It was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. The historical quote fit the situation the best, because he couldn''t make heads or tails of the solution.

    This competition has hundreds of millions of dollars riding on it, the future reputation of the AADA, and they''re ending it in a place that doesn''t have an arena or a broadcast station. There''s something else here. The trick is figuring out what it is and just who wants it. They went to all the trouble of arranging a nationwide race just to get a bunch of trigger-happy gearheads at Sturgis. Then what happens?

    That last question bothered him most of all.

    ***

    Rebekah Walton sat at her desk, carefully editing her article on the Dead Man¡¯s Run. The AADA announced this event only a few days ago, and she was bound and determined to get the lead reporting role for it. After all, she¡¯d been covering the sport for Denver and Colorado in general for years now. She was the natural choice, she thought, and it wouldn¡¯t hurt to remind her viewers they would get the best commentary from her.

    An email popped into her inbox. It was a press release from someone called ATSS Inc., and they¡¯d sent it to all the major news organs in the state. She read it quickly, and then needed to reread when her eyes stopped at two words: Dillon Hodges.

    That twerp is driving for them? How in the world did he manage to get a sponsorship from them? I wonder if they realize just what a public relations nightmare he is? Does he know someone there? Is this a story beyond just the sport?

    She opened a new file and started framing the questions on the screen, along with the facts she knew and the things she suspected.

    ***

    "He''s staring at the camera again," said the man behind that device. Dillon started and blinked his eyes several times.

    "Sorry. Sorry. I just¡­ forgot."

    Nico sighed and rubbed his forehead. Waving a hand at his public affairs people posing as a mock reporter and cameraman, he said, "Take a break. Let me talk with him again."

    The young driver leaned back against the prop representing the side of his car, then jumped forward when it started to tip over under his weight. His face red, he raised the helmet in his hands to his face. "I suck at this!"

    His CEO mode put aside, Nico laid a hand on the young man''s shoulder. "Look, just about everyone gets a little stage fright when that lens is on them. You get bombarded with questions and everyone wants to know how you feel. It''s enough to get anyone''s head in a twist."

    Shaking his head, Dillon threw up his hands in frustration. "It''s¡­ not that. I''m not twisted--I mean, I know what I want to say. I know the answers I want to give to the questions. It''s just¡­ nothing moves from my brain to my lips."

    "Well, you sure knew what to say, and you said it easily enough when it was just you and me. You also didn''t have any problems convincing us to upgrade the tires on our design. You made good, well-thought-out points in your argument. You got me to agree from the driver''s perspective and Kayla to agree from a logical perspective."

    Dillon let the helmet swing down and he faced his sponsor. "That was easy. I mean, you guys know what we''re trying to do, and you have the experience to understand."

    "Do you think the reporters, and maybe even the audience won''t understand what you want to tell them? Isn''t that a bit egotistical, assuming they''re not smarter than you? Kid, a lot of those fans can recite details about their favorite car or arena record that even the driver or gunner doesn''t know."

    "No!" The word came out in a low tone and with enough force to make the older man give him a sidelong glance. "I know how smart they are, and what they look for. I see them all the time in my parent''s restaurant. I hear them talking about the events, the cars, the crews¡­ all of it. And when the camera''s not on me, I can give them my opinion on those things without freezing up."

    "Then it''s not a lack of knowledge, it''s not a lack of will, and it''s not a lack of interest. Alright, don''t beat yourself up. We still have more time to work on this before the flag drops. We''ll figure something out. Go get something to eat, cause Kayla''s got the sim up with what we think is the final weapons loadout. We''ll get some more familiarization drills in tonight."

    Nodding dejectedly, Dillon trudged out of the room. Nico motioned to his people. "Start thinking of ways to interview him where there isn''t a camera in his line of sight. Maybe seeing that thing causes some kind of mental block. And for God''s sake, no one mention the pre-event interviews tomorrow. He''ll just fret himself all night and look like crap on camera. Better to hit him with it and see how he reacts."

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    The cameraman looked thoughtful. "What about a camera in the car? Concealed in the dash? We know the AADA has plans for live commentary. If he thinks it''s audio-only, then maybe he won''t freeze up. We can feed him questions on a side screen, and if he thinks he''s only talking to us and not the public, then that should eliminate the camera fright."

    Nodding, Nico said, "Good idea. I like it. I''ll tell Kayla to get one mounted. Work with her on the best angle. Now, on to our next task," and he turned to look at his head of public affairs. "Monica, we need to finalize our social media plan for engagements. I want to know what feeds, frequency of posts, other channels we might want to crossfeed to, all that. You know what I''m talking about. Figure out what kind of input we need from the crew, and how to upload that. Now that I''m done telling you how to do your jobs, any questions for me?"

    They both shook their heads and he left, heading for his office. He needed a drink.

    He stopped by Eric''s office on his way up. The tall man was just finishing up a conference call with the rest of the entrants and the AADA planners. "Any updates on the route?" He motioned for the man to follow him to his office.

    The director gave him a disgusted look when he stood up, smoothing the front of his suit jacket. "The governor won''t budge on the Eisenhower tunnel. Too much risk of damage, they say. It''s an important connection for the trucking companies, and they''re throwing a shit fit about the potential delays the racers might cause on I-70. There were even some veiled threats about shooting any autoduellist that got too close. The AADA is now looking at a southerly route, down to Pueblo, west to Montrose, up to Grand Junction, and then on to Salt Lake from there. It''s going to add a lot of miles to the trip. On the other hand, that''s more time for crazy shit to happen, and that¡¯s good for ratings."

    "They''d better get that settled soon. We need¡­ Excuse me, my director of field operations needs enough time to pre-position mechanics and supplies."

    Eric gave him the Bird as they entered the office. "I can, and have, moved mountains on a day''s notice. Usually because you had a wild hair up your ass about something. Mind you, just because I can do it doesn''t mean I like to do it. At least this will all be in state for this leg. I''ve started lining up charters for heavy-lift helicopters. That''s going to be the quickest way to get stuff in and out of the backroads areas. Salt Lake has a good airport but hell, once we get into Montana, all bets are off."

    Basher went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of bourbon. They sat and sipped, and he said, in an offhand tone, "Dillon and Kayla seem to be getting on well."

    Eyeing him over the rim of his glass, Eric only took a sip and leaned back into his chair. "That''s good."

    "She hasn''t given him her patented ''engineer death glare'' yet. Probably because he has enough sense not to question the weapons loadout."

    "Smart kid."

    The big man set his glass down a little too hard on the desk. "Dammit, Eric. Aren''t you the least bit concerned over my daughter putting her life at risk in this race with a man we barely know!"

    With a sigh, Eric loosened his tie and leaned forward, glass held in both hands. "I wondered how long the CEO was going to keep the father bottled up. Okay, Nico, here''s how I see this. One, she''s your daughter, through and through. Both of you, once you''re convinced you''ve analyzed the situation correctly, are unstoppable in executing your chosen plan. She''s decided she''s the best choice for the gunner, and she''s executing that plan. It''s too late now to back out, so let''s put that point aside."

    He held up the glass of whiskey, peering at his old friend through the amber liquid. "Two, I did the work to find us a good driver. I''d like to think I''m also pretty good at analyzing things and finding the right people. I know we have a damned good driver. He''ll do his best to win, and that means staying alive. He''ll do his best to keep Kayla alive, especially now that you''ve been pounding teamwork into him. Besides, we''ve seen enough of how he operates now to know he isn''t the type to sacrifice people to win."

    Basher stood up abruptly, his huge fist carefully controlling the glass so nothing spilled. He went to stand by the window, staring out across the city. Eric waited, content to let him work things out for himself.

    "Alright. Dammit. As usual, you have to go and bring logic into the argument, and I can''t argue with any of it."

    Smiling, Eric swallowed the last of the whiskey and stood. "Now it''s up to you to do your part. You know what has to be done to win this thing. You know what the kids need and you know what you need to do to handle the other companies that are fielding teams. This may be a group effort until Sturgis, but that doesn''t mean someone won''t let something slide out on the road."

    "Right. Time to make some calls and make sure everyone is ready to play nice."

    ***

    Dillon arrived at the ATSS building the next afternoon, after a breakfast shift at the diner. He now possessed a pass that let him into the lab without an escort, and he wanted some more time behind the wheel of the simulator. Kayla finally settled on the design last night, and her email with the specs made it difficult for him to get to sleep. He figured he could get at least an hour before the scheduled activities started.

    On entering the building, he found the lobby was full of people, all of them gathered around Nico and Eric. The two men were standing in the center of a circle of lights, with a tripod-mounted camera facing them. Kayla stood to one side, dressed in her racing coveralls and typing one-handed on her tablet.

    Feeling overwhelmed by the activity, Dillon made his way to his gunner''s side, dodging people moving around with cameras, lights, and other gear. "Um, what''s going on?"

    "Pre-event interviews followed by a launch event. The AADA is going to use them to build up the hype for the Dead Man''s Run. People can see who the teams are racing for their city. She looked over at him, taking in his regular clothes. "Go ahead and change. Your suit is on a stand over there, and you can use the men''s room here in the lobby. They won''t start for at least another half an hour or more, and probably lead off with Dad, and it''s better to be ready."

    Numbly, he nodded and shuffled off to get changed. This morning was turning out to be nothing like he''d imagined.

    Fifteen minutes later, he was changed and holding his helmet in one hand. The buzz of activity hadn''t slowed, just shifted its focus. There was a car parked outside now, and Kayla was showing it off to the crowd of media people while they took video and still shots from various angles. It took him a moment to realize this was their car; the actual one for the rally. He made his way outside, curiosity building.

    The differences between his competition car and this one were like night and day. The paint was fresh and unmarred, for one. The ATSS logo stood out on the door and the hood. The chrome was bright and new on the narrow barrel of the turret-mounted flamethrower, and while he watched, Kayla swung the turret back and forth several times for the media shots. Just barely visible in the front and back were the barrels for the machine guns and heavy cannon. The armored wheel hubs covering the tires completed the look.

    Slowly, he walked around the vehicle, trailing his fingers over the body. The ceramic armor was cool under his touch, and he smiled at the untouched treads of the high-density radial tires. When he got to the driver''s door, he saw Kayla sitting in the gunner''s seat, working on the computer. She smiled at him and motioned for him to get inside.

    The seat felt like he was settling into an old friend. It was nothing like his simple, bare bones frame and cushion in his car. This one cradled him, with the edges coming to cushion his neck and knees. The M-shaped steering controls were familiar from his time in the sim, buttons beckoning for his touch. Everything seemed right to him, like he was home from a long journey and found everything the way he''d left it.

    Kayla leaned forward, her head next to his, and pushed the Start button. The powerplant hummed to life, and she asked, "What do you think?"

    He was too engrossed in looking around the car to notice the hesitancy in her tone, taking in the displays while they came to life. "It¡¯s amazing. This¡­ it¡¯s the best car I¡¯ve ever seen."

    She chuckled, soft breath in his ear. He turned to see that she was grinning ear to ear, a smile that lit up her eyes. "I¡¯m glad you like it. We¡¯re going to be spending a lot of time here, and it needs to feel right. I spent a lot of late nights working on the design."

    The dashboard layout was just like the simulator, right down to the ruggedized mounts. He used the buttons on the steering wheel to page through the weapons listing. "Front and rear mounted Javelin cannons, linked twin machine guns, and the flamethrower in the turret. That''s the configuration we practiced with the most."

    His gunner nodded, satisfaction on her face. "The data analysis supported that employment. A good mix of firepower and placement, given your driving ability."

    "And your gunnery skill?"

    She blushed slightly and continued on. "I put a lot of time into putting the data we gathered into the sims into a high-confidence result."

    He was about to say that it was worth it, and then a microphone appeared in front of his face, shoved through the window. Rebekah Walton¡¯s voice came next.

    "Mr. Hodges, can you give us your initial impression of your new car? You¡¯ve never driven for ATSS before, so how did you come to terms with them? Will this sponsorship continue past the Dead Man¡¯s Run? Is there anything you want to tell your fans about this contest?"

    Kayla squeezed his shoulder with one hand and remained where she was. Her presence was comforting, making the question less invasive. "Well, Rebekah, this is the best car I¡¯ve ever driven. We¡¯re going to be able to do a lot¨C"

    He was cut off by Eric¡¯s appearance at the reporter¡¯s side. He took her arm in a firm and gentle grip and waved a finger in her face. "Now, now, Ms. Walton. You know the schedule. Interviews are later on, after the introductions and car review."

    She smiled and withdrew the microphone, displaying blindingly white teeth in an artificially pleasant expression. "Oh, I¡¯m sorry, Mr. Williamson. Dillon and I know each other from the arena, and I thought he could give me a teensy scoop on the other stations. No harm, right, Dillon?"

    "Sure thing, Rebekah. You heard the man. I have to follow the schedule. We¡¯ll talk later, okay?"

    The reporter turned her shiny smile on all of them before walking away. Dillon sank back in his seat, aware of his heart racing. Kayla leaned on his seat back and frowned.

    "She doesn¡¯t like you. I mean, she got upset at Eric for interrupting her scheme, but she doesn¡¯t like you at all, Dillon. What happened?"

    He closed his eyes. "We go way back. She was just starting out, and her assignment as covering the arena fights. I got my first win about the same time, and she was bound and determined to get a ground-breaking interview with the guy who won while doing the least amount of damage to his opponents. I don¡¯t know if she thought that was the story or that I had somehow cheated, but her questions got a little overboard. I¡­ shut down, hardly speaking at all. I heard later her producers got really pissed at the blown interview. They blamed her lack of skill, and she blamed me."

    Eric whistled low while he leaned on the window. "Sucks to be you, man. Seeing as how she¡¯s the lead on this whole rally and all."

    Dillon felt his heart sink. "I am so dead. She¡¯s going to screw us over on the coverage, I just know it."

    "Not if you make the coverage worth her while. All right, kids. Play time¡¯s over. Time to be nice with the officials. They need to inspect the car to make sure it complies with the rules. Out you go."

    They were required to stand at least twenty feet away from the inspection team, and the five men and women checked every weapon, every system of the car with meticulous attention to detail.

    Kayla stood with her arms crossed, a smirk on her face. "Good luck finding a violation. I triple-checked everything before we went to production. They won¡¯t find a thing."

    Dillon wasn¡¯t watching the team. Instead, he kept a weather eye out for Rebekah, sure that she would try again to catch him in some kind of slip up. Eric elbowed him in the ribs after one too many glances around the room.

    "Easy, kid. Calm yourself. That reporter chick isn¡¯t going to come near us again until it¡¯s time for the formal interviews. All you¡¯re doing is making people think you¡¯re nervous about the inspection, the competition, or your gunner. Just take it easy."

    "Easy for you to say," Dillon muttered. "You don¡¯t have to go in front of a camera and make a fool of yourself." He took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

    "Keep working on it. Remember the catchphrases. Now, I¡¯ve got to go mingle. Stay loose and keep calm. You got this, Dillon." And with that he moved into the crowd, gliding through the knots of people like a shark swimming through the shoals of fish.

    Kayla squeezed his arm and said, "Just do what Eric says. Now, I¡¯m going to change. You should too. After the inspection is over, we¡¯re headed off to the launch event at the Washington Park arena, where all the teams will get introduced together. After that, it¡¯s cocktails and socializing. Make sure you get something in your stomach. We don¡¯t want you to pass out in front of everyone."

    He watched her go, stomach tightening at the thought of all the people he was going to have to talk to later on. He headed back inside to change, feeling like it was better to be in the arena, with people shooting at him, than being part of a media event.

 Chapter 7

    <h2>Chapter 7</h2>

    Washington Park Arena, Denver

    The launch event seemed like it would never end for Dillon. There were cameras everywhere, and reporters swam through the crowd like sharks looking for their next meal. He kept to the edges of the event, a plate of food in one hand and a beer in the other and tried to avoid eye contact. He''d already seen Basher do three interviews with Kayla alongside him.

    That''s good enough. The media should eat up that father-daughter storyline. The two of them can handle this.

    He¡¯d also got a look at some of the other crews while they mingled and did their interviews. Five of the other eight crews were of varying quality, with the only qualification that they were sponsored by an AADA-approved organization. The other three were the top contenders in the Mountain West Autoduel circuit, all running Division Six or higher.

    Flammo consisted of a pair of drop-dead gorgeous female redheads, who wore coveralls that looked like flames were bathing their legs and midsection. They easily drew a crowd, and both of them fed on the energy like some kind of social vampires. They just made him feel even more out of place.

    Another team, Quikshred, consisted of a tall, older, gray-haired man and a woman so short she didn¡¯t even come to his shoulder. Their coveralls were covered in Vulcan machinegun blueprints, aligned so that the sleeves were the barrels. Belts of ammunition trailed down their legs. They didn¡¯t seek the attention that Flammo did, and the interviews they did give were delivered with confidence. The driver, Jesse Flynn was someone Dillon was at least familiar with. He¡¯s been on the circuit since Basher¡¯s days, but he¡¯d never broken into the big times. Still, he was well known in the Autoduel circuit as a steady, competent competitor.

    The crowd near him parted slightly, permitting the short man in racing coveralls to walk unmolested from its depths. His path was aimed straight at Dillon. He held neither food nor beverage in his hands, only a slightly predatory smile on his face. His coveralls were all white, with feathery wings imprinted on the arms, and a massive hammer crossing the chest.

    Carefully placing the plate and beer on the planter next to him, Dillon straightened. If one of his fellow ''teammates'' wanted to talk some smack before it started, he would be ready. The other man stopped a few feet from him and looked up and down. His coveralls sported the Martin Graumann Industries logo, a company most autoduellist in the Mountain West were familiar with. The name tag read ''Gabriel''.

    "So, you''re Dillon Hodges. Famous driver and racer extraordinaire." Even though the tone was pleasant, the words were just too precisely pronounced to be friendly.

    Given that his name tag clearly stated his identity, Dillon only nodded, noticing that the other man called him a ''racer'' and not an ''autoduellist''. "That''s me. Not sure where you got those other ideas, but yeah, I''m pretty good behind the wheel. My arena record proves that."

    "Yeah, I''ve seen your record. I wasn''t aware Division 2 was considered a competitive league. I mean, just about anyone can field a car there. You seem to know your way around a track, I''ll give you that."

    Holding his temper in check, Dillon said, "It''s Division 3, actually. Thanks so much for the compliment. I wasn''t aware I needed anything from you, though."

    The small man laughed. "Oh, you simpleton. You don''t know who I am, do you?" He tapped his name tag and made an explosion with his fingers, a huge smile on his face.

    Dillon nodded and mimicked the other¡¯s man explosion gesture, although he let his end in a raspberry. "You''re Gabriel Santos, one of the Angels of Boom. Yeah, I''ve watched you fight. I''m always surprised there''s an arena left standing when it''s over. You realize the point is to cross the finish line, not to destroy everything in sight?"

    The smile remained, and it even reached the other man¡¯s eyes. Clearly, he found the whole confrontation amusing. "Hey, if anything gets in my way, it''s gone. Smashed. Junk. I don''t let anything, or anyone stop me from winning."

    "You do know that for this thing, we''re all on the same team, right? You lose points for shooting at your teammates. That''s going to keep you from winning if you go into the negative."

    "I don¡¯t need to shoot you. It¡¯d be a waste of ammunition. I¡¯ll let the crazies out there in the wilds take care of that. Now, I''ve made things clear to most of the other crews, and Jesse doesn¡¯t have the fire needed to go for first anymore. Only one crew is going to win this whole thing, kid. And that''s going to be us. I thought I''d give you the option of pulling out now, so as not to embarrass yourself on national television. I mean, any more than you already do around here."

    Dillon''s temper flared, and he stepped forward, fists balled. His opponent kept smiling and lifted his chin, offering a clear target. Before he''d taken more than a couple of steps, a hand closed over the younger man''s shoulder. The grip was iron, and looking up in surprise, saw Eric frowning down at him.

    "He''s baiting you. You¡¯re officially signed up, and that means no fighting with the other team. Hit him before the rally starts, and you get a penalty."

    Gabe laughed, this time a harsh, grating thing. "Your nursemaid just saved you a whole bunch of trouble, boy. Too bad you can''t have him on the road with you."

    Without looking, Eric said, "Santos, just like your weapons, you run your mouth too damn much. Why do you go find some puppies to kick? That¡¯s more your speed."

    Gabe¡¯s face went red, and he opened his mouth, and nothing came out. Fury rolled through his eyes, and his hands curled into fists. Eric turned to face him, and after a brief pause, turned his head to present his left cheek. "Go ahead. You know you want to. You won¡¯t even be penalized for it, since I¡¯m not a competitor. Come on, Boom Boy. Show me what you got."

    The Angel was almost visibly vibrating with rage. With a massive effort, he got his emotions under control, and he stalked away, indignant fury making his movements almost comical.

    Dillon sighed and said, "Thanks for keeping me out of trouble."

    "Oh, I''m about to take you from the frying pan and into the fire. Time for your interview."

    His stomach sank towards his feet, watching his opponent disappearing into the crowd. "Can''t I just go another round with him?"

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    Smiling wryly, Eric guided him towards the center of the room, where the cameras were. "Just remember what we taught you. You''re thrilled to be competing in the Dead Man''s Run, you''re looking forward to being part of the ATSS team, and you have every confidence in your gunner and vehicle to get you to the finish line. Keep repeating those lines or variations of them, and you''ll do fine."

    Dillon whispered the instructions under his breath while they closed the distance to the bright lights. Kayla stood to one side, sipping on a glass of champagne. When she saw him, she gave him a thumbs up and mouthed, you got this.

    Looking back at her, he asked, "Why isn''t Kayla in this interview?"

    "They''ve already talked with her. Unsurprisingly, they wanted her take as the ATSS design lead, not the gunner. That, and her and Nico talking about this rally being a family affair. Believe it or not, you''re a small fry in this game right now."

    He felt a little relieved. All too often, being the event winner meant they wanted his input, and he was the first one interviewed. Maybe this would be easier.

    ***

    Rebekah was in her element here. The lights, the cameras, and the opportunity to be seen and heard on camera made most people want to talk about themselves. The flow of liquor helped, too. She limited herself to wine spritzers, however, and only a couple of those. It helped to have a glass in hand outside the interviews, when people let their guards down and revealed just a little too much about their personal feelings. Those comments she committed to memory. Having a digicorder here would be too obvious, and besides, the background noise would interfere with a good recording.

    She let others handle the ATSS team and especially Dillon. While the opportunity to befuddle him in front of the camera was tempting, she was after bigger things. That¡¯s why she¡¯d made sure to secure the interview with the Angels crew.

    Gabe and Rafe stood side by side, white coveralls seeming to absorb the camera lights. It made the darkened hammer on the front stand out even more.

    "Gabriel, Rafael, thank you for stopping by to chat with me." Rebekah smiled easily, inviting the viewer to welcome the two arena stars with her.

    "Oh, our pleasure, Rebekah. You¡¯ve always been a friend to the Angels, and we appreciate the support from your viewers." Gabe¡¯s voice dripped sincerity, and Rafe flashed two thumbs up at the camera.

    "What¡¯s your assessment of this team that our great city has put together for the Dead Man¡¯s Run? Can we secure the Grand Prize at the end?"

    He smiled at her, confidence in his eyes. "You know us, Rebekah. The Angels are ready to lead our team to victory. With us in the lead, no one else will be left standing when the dust falls at the end."

    She flashed a brilliant smile at the camera, showing the viewer she was reassured by his announcement. "And the rest of the Denver crews? Surely they¡¯ll be helpful along the way?"

    Gabe looked straight into the camera this time, waving his hand around the room. "There¡¯s some really good drivers and gunners out there, and I know we¡¯ll pull together for the win. The less experienced teams, those who have only competed in the lower Divisions will need some help, and that¡¯s what the Angels do. Put your money on us, folks. We¡¯re going to win this thing for our great city of Denver!"

    ***

    The crowds were gone, and only a few sat at the small tables, mostly talking in low voices. The camera crews finished packing up their equipment, and the last of the displays were disappearing into their storage containers. Eric found his boss sitting in a chair in one of the side rooms, the glass of bourbon on the desk in front of him nearly untouched. The television on the wall across from his desk was still on, showing reruns of the event, whereas he''d muted the sound long ago. The words still echoed in his head anyway.

    Eric lightly rapped his knuckles on the door. "I wondered where you''d got to. Why the hell are you still watching that thing? I never figured you for a glutton for punishment."

    "Dillon is really the best driver? There''s no one else?"

    Leaning against the door jamb, the tall man smiled. "You want the big bucks and the fame, you gotta fight for it. The kid''ll get better."

    "Better." Nico rubbed a hand across his forehead. "What was it he said there at the end? ''I''m thrilled to be a dead man.'' No, wait. How about ''I''m confident in my car to get across the start line.''"

    "Hey, if this were easy, anybody could do it. Think of it as a challenge, Nico. I know you love those."

    "Get. Out."

    Eric''s laughter trailed after him down the hall while Nico swore and took a large gulp of his drink.

    ***

    Loveland, Colorado

    The bar''s parking lot was nearly full, and the din of conversation and country music greeted the elderly man when he opened the door. The bouncer immediately stood up from the stool he''d been sitting at and nodded a greeting. He then turned to clear a path to the back room, past the pool tables. The old man smiled his thanks and made his way through the crowd.

    Those who weren¡¯t too far gone in their drinks gave him a respectful nod and got out of his way. For his part, he nodded back, and in a few cases greeted a person by name and shook hands. One of the servers met him at the door to the back room, presenting him with a beer bottle on her tray.

    He took it with a smile, saying, "Thank you, darling. Just what I need to get the road dust off my tongue."

    She smiled back, a genuine smile, and opened the door for him. He nodded his thanks and went inside. The young woman carefully closed the door behind him and left, never once entering the room.

    Inside, a group of four men and three women sat around a circular table, each with their own drink. Conversation stopped when the newcomer entered, and they waited until the door was closed before one of them spoke.

    "What¡¯s the deal, Vernon? Gotta be pretty serious for you to call us all here like this."

    Vernon Grant sat down and took a long pull from his beer before he answered. "It is, Dan. We finally have our opportunity, people. A chance to give the AADA back what they deserve for making the governments outlaw the BLUDs. We just have to reach out with both hands and seize it." He reached out with his hands, motions mirroring his words.

    The rest of the table leaned in; interest caught. Vernon smiled that easy smile and continued. "They¡¯re in trouble, just like we thought it would happen. Their sissified rules are losing them fans by the truckload. They¡¯re desperate to do something, anything, to get them back that they¡¯re going to hold a rally on the open roads. And that¡¯ll be our chance to show them they haven¡¯t got what it takes anymore to run these roads."

    "How we gonna do that? Them cops don¡¯t let us get together easily no more. More''n three of us on the street together and you got a pig tailing you." A dark-haired man in a yellow and black leather jacket jerked his thumb toward the window, showing the street outside. "I¡¯m all for showing those AADA chicken hearts what asphalt tastes like, but I ain¡¯t going to jail for it."

    Vernon smiled and raised his hands in the air, like he was receiving a blessing from on high. "Not to worry, Jake. The AADA is going to let us in. In fact, they¡¯re practically begging for us to jump in and stir the pot. Now listen, all of you. The race is a rally, from Denver to Sturgis. It¡¯s going to be covered live, and it¡¯s being sold as a radically new form of autoduelling."

    Several of the others snorted or laughed, and the older man smiled. "Right? We¡¯ve known since the beginning that open road fights are the only true form of autoduelling. Well, since they¡¯re asking for a challenge, we¡¯re going to give them one. And not just us. I¡¯ve been in touch with my counterparts in Deseret, Idaho, Montana, and North Dakota. They just can¡¯t wait for the rally to come their way."

    There were open grins now, up and down the table. The eagerness was palpable, like a hum of electric current through the room. Grant motioned to the south, towards Denver. "We¡¯ll need to be smart about this. We can¡¯t do it up here. The Corridor is still too tightly patrolled. No, we¡¯re going to have to branch out. That means getting your people in position ahead of time. And I know just where to do it."

    He pointed at Jake. "You know Jeb Cannon out near Grand Junction. Why don¡¯t you take a trip out there and let him know what¡¯s going on. I¡¯m sure he¡¯d like to play too. The rest of us will spread out to help our brothers and sisters along the route. Then we show those gutless cowards what it really means to fight!"

    Glasses and cheers were raised, and fists pounded on the table. Vernon leaned back in his chair, smiling beatifically. Today would go into the history books like other famous start dates, like the Declaration of Independence or the legalization of autoduelling. Today would mark the beginning of the end for the AADA.

 Chapter 8

    <h2>Chapter 8</h2>

    The next few days were devoted to final checks of the car and the weapons. Although the ATSS engineers did their usual excellent job building the vehicle to Kayla''s specifications, the newly formed crew knew their asses depended on everything working like it was designed. The AADA blocked out the Washington Park Arena for this very purpose, and each car and crew were assigned time slots to check out their vehicle.

    They slalomed their way through a makeshift obstacle course, complete with potholes big enough to swallow a person, water-filled barriers, and simulated dropped weapons. To make things even tougher, they''d also set up targets at various distances away, and it was Kayla''s job to identify and hit each target when a light came on over it.

    "Hard left coming up. Gonna have to brake for this one." Dillon found communicating with a partner was becoming easier now, for both of them. Her only response was, "Adjusting fire." He didn''t have to listen to Sammy complain about how hard it was to hit anything or pushing him to move over so he could take a shot at something. As much as he hated to admit it, Kayla was proving to be more compatible and easier to work with than his former crew partner.

    The turn opened up into a straightaway, and when they got leveled out a target lit up at the far end. This one was motorized, moving left and right in short jerks like a car maneuvering for a shot or trying to avoid one. He reacted on impulse, going into an evasive pattern while accelerating so he could get past his opponent.

    "Dillon! Hold still. We''re supposed to shoot at the target."

    Chagrined that he''d reacted without thinking, he let off the accelerator and held a steady course, waiting for Kayla.

    For her part, she only murmured, "Good, good, D, steady¡­ now." The front-mounted cannon fired, striking the target dead center. As soon as she did, he adjusted course for the next obstacle.

    Nico watched them work the course from the VIP level, giving him a great view of most of the arena. He alternated between watching the action and looking at the stopwatch each time Kayla took out a target. Eric stood next to him, clipboard in hand where he noted the times.

    "Looking good, Nico," the other man said. "Best run I¡¯ve seen from them yet."

    "Good. Please call them in. They just announced the official course route. Time for some strategy."

    Twenty minutes later, they were seated in a small conference room. Nico hooked up his tablet to the screen on the wall, and it displayed a map showing Colorado, Deseret, Montana, Wyoming, and the Dakotas. A red line traced a looping route out of Denver, heading south first and then west before turning north. It continued north into Montana, where it headed east again.

    Nico used a laser pointer to trace the route. "Since Governor Poncher has refused to allow the event to go through the Eisenhower Tunnel to cross the Continental Divide, the AADA was forced to use a more southerly route on Interstate 25. This will go through Colorado Springs to Pueblo, where you¡¯ll recharge and then take Highway 50 west. This will take you to Gunnison, your first overnight stop."

    He paused and looked at them apologetically. "It¡¯s expected that the first leg will be relatively peaceful, or at least no serious threats. Given that Gunnison is a vacation spot for the rich and famous, there¡¯ll also be a media event there. We had no say in the matter. Eric, that¡¯s our first logistics stop."

    Turning back to the map, he continued. "Heading west out of Gunnison, you¡¯ll cross the Blue Mesa Reservoir, which has a National Guard base. We don''t expect any trouble in that area, but you''ll have to be on your best behavior. After that, you¡¯re going to enter some really wild territory. Road conditions out there are going to be your biggest concern, since that area doesn¡¯t seem much in the way of road maintenance. When you get to Montrose, you¡¯ll head north to Grand Junction and into Deseret territory."

    Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

    He paused again there, and Eric shook his head. "You kids may find the Patrol to be a bigger nuisance than any biker gang. They¡¯re damned strict, but they¡¯ve agreed to this event because they want the publicity too. All competition vehicles will be allowed to pass through Deseret lands without being stopped for any reason other than wanton destruction."

    Nico tapped the table. "The key thing to remember is that Deseret does not allow human cloning. If you buy it out there, we¡¯ll try to get to you as quickly as we can to get a memory read. There is a very real danger that we may not get to you in time."

    Having competed without Gold Cross for all of his career, this didn¡¯t faze Dillon too much. He saw Kayla go a little bit pale, and her father¡¯s face was locked down, displaying no emotion.

    The CEO laid his pointer down on the table and folded his hands. "Once you leave Grand Junction, it should be easy driving. You¡¯ll stay the night at the Green River Truck Stop, and then continue on to Salt Lake City the next day. The day after you arrive, there will be an arena competition to cap that leg of the rally. The organizing committee isn¡¯t saying what it is just yet."

    "That won¡¯t give us much time to get our cars ready for the next leg," Dillon mused. "Not if we have to repair the road damage, compete, and then repair it again."

    "Oh, they thought of that." Eric swiveled to face him. "You won¡¯t be competing in the arena with your rally cars. The AADA will provide¡­ something. We just don¡¯t know what. And while you¡¯re competing, yours truly will be overseeing the repairs and making sure you¡¯re ready to go for the next leg."

    Kayla pointed at the map. "The next leg takes us into Idaho and Montana?"

    "Yes, although they¡¯re not announcing the pit stops just yet. Apparently, there¡¯s going to be a competition online for fans to guess the route and pit stops. The winners get an all-expense paid trip to the arena fight at the end of the second leg." Her father grimaced. "Fans can submit their guesses as soon as it starts. According to our media team, the fan boards are burning up with rumors and speculation."

    "Speaking of which," Eric tapped the table for emphasis. "The Association has put some serious marketing money into a social media blitz. For us, this translates into a live feed from your car. Fans will be able to bid for the right to ask you questions. Those transactions turn into points. The more the fans interact with you, the more points you earn."

    Dillon threw his hands up in the air. "What? I¡¯m supposed to type while I¡¯m driving? Or in a fight?"

    "No. The computer will have a voice interface, or Kayla can type answers in when things are quiet." The brown-haired man looked the young driver square in the eye. "This is another way to win. Remember, it¡¯s not all about driving."

    Sighing, he dropped his head. "Right. It¡¯s not all about driving. Do we have to answer every question?"

    "If you want to keep getting questions - and points - you¡¯ll answer them with good answers that encourage the fans to follow you. You don¡¯t have to give a monologue. Just be yourself. And since you control the input, you can edit your answer before submitting it. The best part is you won¡¯t be on camera."

    Kayla nudged Dillon with her fingers. "You can do this part. I¡¯ll read the questions out loud, and we can talk about our answer before we put it in. It¡¯ll be an easy way to get points."

    Nico put both hands on the table and looked them over. "Now that the details are out of the way, let¡¯s talk attitude." He shook his head at their looks. "It¡¯s not what you think. I¡¯m talking about your attitude on the road. This will be a marathon. Dillon, it¡¯ll be the longest competition you¡¯ll ever be in. Kayla, this will be like a never-ending system test. It¡¯s going to take everything you have to stay on task, remain focused, and not get hurt."

    The two young people were quiet now, their faces sober. The former autoduellist looked them over once again and sighed. "I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re going to run into out there. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s going to trigger you, to push you over your limit. Just remember two things; you have each other to rely on, and you have my faith. I wouldn¡¯t be putting you out there if I didn¡¯t think you could do this. I wouldn¡¯t be betting my company¡¯s reputation on this wild rally if I didn¡¯t think we were going to have a chance of winning."

    He stood and offered a hand to Dillon. "Go out there tomorrow and drive. Not like your life depended on it; you¡¯re used to that. No, Dillon. Drive like my daughter¡¯s life depends on it."

    The young man shakily smiled back at him and shook his hand. Then Nico turned to his daughter and held out his hand. "Kayla, I want to say I¡¯m proud of you for stepping up and taking on the gunner role. I don¡¯t have to worry about you doing your job. Remember, just as Dillon has your life in his hands, you have his. Count on yourself and remember who you are."

    She stood up, her back straight, with her eyes wet. "I won¡¯t let you down, Dad."

 Chapter 9

    <h2>Chapter 9</h2>

    It was a bright and beautiful morning, with just a few low clouds in the sky. The atmosphere at the start line was one of frantic activity, interspersed with hurried conversations and people dashing back and forth. At least for the event staff.

    The crews were at their vehicles, with techs performing a few last minute checks with calm professionalism. Any conversations were carried on in normal tones, with one exception.

    "Dillon!"

    The young driver was in his seat, hands on the yoke while his mind drifted down the I-25 route and into Pueblo. He retraced their route, long since memorized, and mentally noted which bends in the road were tighter than others. Hills were noted for the ascent and descent speeds, and it was here that his shouted name registered on his conscious mind.

    With a start, he became aware of the real world. Looking to his left, where the shout came from, he saw Kayla leaning on the window, eyes sparking with anger.

    "Where the hell were you? I¡¯ve been calling your name for two minutes. We¡¯ve got to run our final systems checks." She slapped the door sill with both hands and turned to walk around to the other side.

    He flushed, remembering that this car was more complex than his normal vehicle, and that Kayla tended to err heavily on the side of caution when it came to making sure things worked like they were supposed to. That includes me, I suppose.

    She slid in feet first and landed in a crouch in the space next to his seat. Her eyes still flashed with fury, and she asked, "Well?"

    "Well what?" His confusion at her question only seemed to anger her more.

    "Where the hell did you go? I told you; I was calling your name over and over, and you didn¡¯t answer. Please don¡¯t tell me you¡¯ve got a medical condition we didn¡¯t know about."

    "Uh, no. Nothing like that. I was just¡­ inside my head. Running the first part of the course, you know. Following the route down to Colorado Springs for now."

    Her brown eyes searched his, looking for something more. "That¡¯s it? You were just daydreaming?" The last word was dangerously quiet.

    "No! Not like that. Look, I like to be prepared, okay? I know what this part of the route looks like from the map and overhead photos. It¡¯s something I always did in the arena. I ran through the layout in my head, looking for problem areas and what I could use to my advantage. That¡¯s what I was doing here, at least for the stretch down to the Springs."

    She stared at him, bright eyes on a carefully neutral face. They tracked back and forth over his face, looking for what he didn¡¯t know. A sign that he was lying, maybe? Finally, she huffed and moved to her seat without saying another word. He breathed a silent sigh of relief and turned to the controls, working through the system checks she wanted.

    The AADA had enough clout with the city that the police shut down southbound I-25 for a mile, stretching from East County Line Road to just south of the 470 interchange. They¡¯d rerouted traffic and would hold it open for a couple of hours to keep the lanes clear for the initial start. The Angels, Flammo, and Quikshred, were the top tier competitors and each received their own lane. A random draw put one of the other teams on the fourth lane. The ATSS team was in the second rank, in the number two lane behind Flammo. In all, nine teams were lined up, ready to begin the Mountain West portion of the Dead Man¡¯s Run.

    ***

    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    Basher and Eric weren¡¯t at the start line. There was limited space for non-competitors, and sponsors like ATSS received full access to the drone camera footage. They sat in his office, watching the start on his big screen.

    When the starting flag started to wave, the big man closed his eyes briefly. Eric smiled at the screen and looked over at his boss. "It¡¯ll be alright, Nico. They can handle themselves, and they¡¯ve got the best car we can give them."

    "Easy for you to say," he mumbled, stumbling his way through a half-remembered rosary. Then, with a chuckle that was barely forced, he said, "I¡¯m not sure if I¡¯m praying for them or the competition they find along the way."

    ***

    Rebekah watched the racers take their starting positions from high overhead. She was in a specially outfitted news helicopter. It contained extra battery capacity, allowing it to stay aloft for each segment of the rally. The cabin was soundproofed, with a fixed camera on her and an array underneath. The only other occupants of the cabin were the camera and drone operators, and they were bent over their tasks. In addition to her helicopter, there were a half-dozen camera-equipped drones sending their feeds back to the storage banks onboard. Even though the raw data was transmitted back to the main station for post-processing and editing, Rebekah could see the footage live and put it up on her feed for the audience to see while she commented on it.

    Her hair and makeup team set her up with a look that incorporated the headset, making it part of her ensemble look. The live broadcast countdown clicked away to zero, and she smiled to herself. It was time to show that she was the right and best choice for the next anchor job.

    "Welcome, everyone to the kickoff of the Mountain West portion of the Dead Man¡¯s Run. I¡¯m Rebekah Walton, your host for this event. As you can see, I¡¯m not in the studio, because I¡¯m flying over the event." The station cut away to a shot from a drone, showing the news chopper hovering over the freeway.

    "Down below, the racers are lined up in their starting positions. At the pole position, the Angels of Boom. Flammo is next to them, and we have Quikshred at the end. Those are your big three representing the City of Denver and your great state of Colorado. All are experienced autoduellists and our experts are projecting high scores for them. Still, there are nine teams out here to race for the prize, and it could be anyone¡¯s game. We''ll be with them all the way on this rally, from Denver to Salt Lake City and beyond."

    The cameraman zoomed in on the starter¡¯s position while a woman climbed up to the stand set over the freeway. The current Ms. Denver, Arlene Gutierrez was the official starter for the event, and she held up the green flag to show the racers what was coming.

    "And here we go. Our very own Ms. Colorado is doing the honors, and the flag is up, the flag is waving. They¡¯re off, on a journey across Colorado, Deseret, Idaho, Montana, and the Dakotas. It¡¯s going to be an exciting time and we¡¯ll be with them every step of the way, and so will you!"

    ***

    Vernon Grant watched the live coverage with interest from the comfort of his own home. He was also recording the feed, so he could go back and take a better look at the cars. His plan consisted of several parts, and the more they knew about their opposition the better it would go.

    Jake left yesterday to meet with Jeb Cannon. The bandit king fixation on Grand Junction played into the plan, giving them a nice opening that couldn¡¯t be directly traced to BLUD. Deseret would soon learn that the BLUDs weren''t some kind of tame animal they could make dance to their religious tune. Meanwhile, he had a few other surprises in store. Small ones, with the limited time available to get people into position. It was enough to poke at the AADA, to see how they would respond and how long it would take them to realize what was happening. That information would play in to his bigger plans later on.

    In the meantime, he started on his plans for Salt Lake. Dialing a number from memory, he hummed a small tune under his breath while he waited for the other end to pick up. "Sarah, how are things out in Deseret?"

    The familiar rasp of her smoke-burned throat was a semisweet reminder of the old days. "Vernon, how the hell are you? It''s been a minute."

    "Are you tracking on this new thing the AADA is doing? The road rally?"

    Her laugh sounded like gravel falling down a metal chute. "They just now figured out what they should have been doing all along."

    "This is an opportunity for us. I''m doing what I can here, but we''re more limited than you. Out there, however, I think we can give them a real wakeup."

    "Be nice to do something other than listen to these youngbloods and their fancy cars. I''m telling you, Vernon, the Brotherhood out here is almost like those pretty flowers in the arena."

    "Do you have someone who still has the fire in them? Someone who''s has vision and is willing to take action?"

    "Yeah. Jerrod Baker. He''s not just talk. If I had the right place for action, he could make some big waves. Even better, he''s smart and kept off the Patrol radar. They ain''t watching him."

    Grant smiled into the receiver. "Let''s talk about the event happening there in a couple of days. I say we should give them a big surprise."

 Chapter 10

    <h2>Chapter 10</h2>

    Dillon kept his distance from the others while they traveled through and out of Denver. Kayla remained quiet, and he couldn''t tell if she was still mad or just watching the others. She kept rotating the turret from side to side, checking their flanks even though they were still in a relatively safe area.

    The racers passed a truck convoy outside the Castle Rock suburb, their horns blaring in encouragement. The heavily armed semis passed into his rear camera view and then out of sight before Kayla said anything.

    "I can''t imagine anyone taking them on."

    He smiled in relief. Her tone wasn¡¯t surly any longer, and her comment was genuine. The diner saw its share of truckers and gun crews, and the stories they told were guaranteed to make you shudder. It took a special kind of person to embrace the highway life, traversing the dangerous zones between cities.

    "The gangs out here aren''t exactly filled with clear thinkers. And if they get lucky, they''re set for a long time. Lots will try, usually with one trick or another."

    She hummed noncommittally, and he heard the keyboard at work. After a minute, she sighed. "We¡¯re up to just five followers, and one of those is from your family. At least, that''s what I assume ''We heart Dillon'' represents. You never mentioned having any groupies."

    He smiled. "Probably my sister Danica. My biggest supporter, in the family at least. I, uh, didn''t really have any followers when I was dueling in the arena. I mean, I had some, but they were mostly speed junkies who liked to watch me zip around the track."

    Snorting, she said, "Well, all of the viewers are getting bored. Lots want to know when then shooting is going to start. I guess they were thinking this was going to be like an arena fight."

    "Eric said to expect trouble when we go through the Springs. Lots of biker gangs there, all of them scarred and crazy from the left-over radiation."

    "I''ll be ready for them. It''ll be a good warm-up for what comes later. Meanwhile, here come some questions. First one. What''s your favorite food?"

    "Burgers and fries, especially at our diner. Maurice has his own special seasoning for the patties. Hey, can you hype the restaurant? Home Sweet Diner, in Aurora."

    She laughed, typing in the answer. "This shouldn''t be a surprise, but lasagna is mine. My family has a recipe that''s been passed down over several generations."

    "Wait, you can cook, too?"

    She laughed. "Of course. After all, a recipe is just like programming. Follow the instructions and you get the correct result."

    "Don''t put that in the chat. Maurice would disown me. I don''t think the man has any of his specials written down. It''s always ''a little of this, a little of that'', and then the magic happens."

    "Well, Maurice and I will just have to agree to disagree. Okay, next question."

    ***

    The highway walso-maintained, and twenty minutes later they were approaching Monument Pass, where the I-25 dropped down into the city. Although they''d seen pictures of the devastation many times, the sheer scope of it played out before them when they crested the hill. In the far distance, a massive crater swallowed up where Peterson Air Force Base and the Colorado Springs Airport once sat. The ground for miles around was blackened destruction, still too radioactive for cleanup crews to enter.

    Further out, the suburbs lay in ruins, abandoned by the federal government and left to decay. Here, the freeway took on an ominous look. Five-foot-high concrete barriers lined the road, and the former six lane highway necked down to just three. Old overpasses, no longer in use, were blocked by barriers and strung with metal latticework, to prevent pedestrians from throwing bombs and junk onto the freeway. The road was decent, and here and there they could see unrepaired cracks and potholes. The on and off ramps were blocked with barriers also, although they quickly learned that the gangs found ways to remove those blockages.

    Motorcycles and trikes spilled out onto the freeway from one of these ratholes, engines screaming for all they were worth to get up to speed. By unspoken accord, the nine cars spread out their formation, giving everyone room to maneuver and shoot. However, the Angels car, in the lead since they left Denver, accelerated and began to open the distance between them and the rest of the pack.

    ***

    Overhead, Rebekah smiled at the sight of the attacking vehicles. Not even an hour in and we get some action.

    She signaled the station for a live broadcast, and a few seconds later the red light came on. The voice of Bob Finneman, the current lead anchor came over her headset. "We¡¯re going live now to Rebekah Walton. Is something happening out there, Rebekah?"

    In her broadcaster voice, she said, "Bob, it looks like the Colorado Springs gangs are coming out to challenge our racers. I''m counting at least twenty bikers so far on the freeway, and there may be more."

    "Rebekah, have the racers reacted?"

    "Yes, Bob, in different ways. Those towards the rear are going to get the brunt of the attack, I think. The lead team, the Angels of Boom, are using the threat from the bikers to pull ahead of the rest, however. It''s not exactly good teamwork, but being in first place is important to these competitors. We''re going to have the drone cameras move in for better shots and give our viewers a real close-up on the action."

    ***

    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    The Angels continued to open the distance, leaving the rest of them behind to deal with the emerging threat.

    "Dammit. He''s leaving us to deal with these crazies." One of the last cars in the group, they were going to get hit first, and Dillon tracked on the bikes coming up on him.

    The turret rotated to the rear, and then the rear-mounted twin machine guns began hammering away. "More points for us," Kayla shouted gleefully, when the lead bike took a full twenty round burst to the front. The tire shredded, armor peeling away in huge chunks, and then the bike was down, tumbling end over end in a ball of fire.

    Grinning, Dillon drifted to the right where the next lead cyclist approached. This one was alert to their weapons, and he began to swerve back and forth in an irregular pattern. Kayla fired several bursts at him with little success.

    "Stupid computer. Find his pattern. Do what I programmed you to do!" She smacked the console, and the sound of flesh on plastic came dully through his helmet.

    "Kayla, they''re coming up on the left," he warned.

    "I can''t let up on this guy or he''ll take a shot. Besides, what can he do from the side?"

    The question was answered seconds later when the driver swerved closer, pulled a short-barreled side-by-side shotgun from a sheath on his back, and fired both barrels into their left side.

    The shot hit the post right behind Dillon''s head, and he jerked, causing the car to swerve to the right. By the time he''d recovered, the first biker dropped back to reload and another was pulling up alongside, an assault rifle in one hand.

    "Oh no you don''t," he muttered, and cut to the left in a short, sharp motion. The biker, more agile than him, simply swerved left also. Three more bikers accelerated past this one, intent on the other racers ahead of them.

    "Kayla, I can''t stop this guy from taking a shot into our side. Flame him!"

    The biker saw the motion as the turret rotated, drifting closer to them to put himself mostly under the turret''s firing arc. Dillon grimaced when the assault rifle came up, and said, "Get ready. I''m moving towards him."

    He pulled the car in a quick motion to his left, and the biker, not quite ready to fire, moved away from him. In a fluid motion, Dillon came back right instead of following, and Kayla triggered the flamethrower.

    She hit him dead on, wreathing the rider and machine in jellied gasoline. The bike swerved out of control and slammed into the left side concrete barrier, turning into a smoking pinwheel that left greasy black smoke climbing to the sky.

    ***

    Rebekah let the opening moments of the fight develop without commentary, and now she broadcast again. "Bob, in a surprising twist, the ATSS car made the first kill of the contest. Or maybe it''s not surprising, given the daughter of the famous Basher Battaglia is behind those guns. Still, those bikers are not about to let things stand. They''re closing in and it doesn''t look good for our racers."

    ***

    Their victory was short lived. The car jumped when a rocket slammed into their rear. Already keyed up from the maneuver, Dillon fumbled for control while the back end fishtailed. None of the damage indicators flashed on the display, so at least the explosion hadn''t penetrated their armor.

    By the time he''d gotten them straightened out, four more bikes passed them, two on each side, heading for the rest of the team. The flamethrower gave them new respect for this prey, and the rest were content to hang back and pepper them from the rear.

    He made the next three rockets miss, tires screeching while he dodged side to side, eyes alternating between the rear cameras and the front view. Kayla called out directions and made no attempt to shoot during the wild maneuvers. After the third one, she said, "I think that''s the last of their rockets. Can you line me up for a shot?"

    "The road''s clear for now. You better shoot first, cause we''re going to be an easy target."

    "Watch me." The car straightened out and she opened up with the machine guns, using short bursts. He glanced at the rear camera, watching while she herded them into a tighter group with short bursts of machine gun fire, and then let loose with the cannon. The first shot struck the lead bike, smashing its makeshift armor to splinters and penetrating all the way to the powerplant. It exploded, sending motorcycle parts flying in all directions. The gang members alert enough to the danger started to pull away from the rapidly disassembling machine, and when pieces of metal and chunks of plastic hit the side of a two-wheeled vehicle traveling nearly sixty miles per hour, it made for a difficult time remaining in control.

    The smoke hid the carnage from the trailing bike, and they drove right into the expanding cloud of debris. Bike and rider went in different directions, and two light rockets shot up and into the sky.

    "Oh. I guess they had some more rockets. My bad," Kayla deadpanned.

    Dillon merely raised a closed fist up and behind him, and after a moment she completed the fist bump. Just then, the computer chimed multiple times, their score increasing each time. Almost immediately after, the channel started flooding with comments.

    Dillon had no chance to see what they said, because he needed to dodge the wrecks of the cycles that passed them earlier. Six gang cycles against six experienced autoduellists would only end one way.

    The radio crackled with Gabe''s voice. "Hogging all the points, Hodges? Gonna leave some for the rest of us?"

    "Well, gee, Gabe, it''s not like you were going to stick around and collect them. You couldn''t run fast enough to get away from them."

    "Screw you, Hodges. Just keep eating my dust and we''ll see what the score looks like at the end."

    On the intercom, Kayla snorted. "Forget him. He''s still thinking like this is an arena fight. We have¡­," she paused to check the map, "Just under two hundred fifty miles to Gunnison. Lots of time to catch up and pass him."

    Dillon smiled at her cocky tone. "Hell, if we keep racking up points like this, we won''t need to pass him."

    She gave a mock gasp. "What? Dillon Hodges giving up the chance to be in the lead? Are you feeling okay?"

    "Hey, you wanted me to pass him. That means giving up the opportunity to shoot everything in sight. Are you feeling okay?"

    They both laughed, and then she leaned forward to lightly slap the back of his helmet. "Nice driving, D."

    "Nice shooting, K."

    ***

    The helicopter gained altitude and veered west to avoid the radiation zone. Rebekah concluded her broadcast. "Well, Bob, a very dramatic conclusion to our first combat of this rally. It appears there''s no significant damage to any of the cars, and they certainly left a trail of destruction in their wake. We saw two surprises this morning. The biggest is that our leaders hardly took part in the shootout. Perhaps they''re saving themselves for a real threat. The second one is the debut of Kayla Battaglia, which has left no doubt that she is her father''s daughter. I''m looking forward to what else she has in store for us."

    The red light winked out and she sat back, satisfied with herself. The astute among her viewers would notice the absence of any mention of Dillon Hodges, and she knew they would comment on that in the forums. And since she had the best view of anyone, it would be telling that his name was missing from her commentary.

    ***

    Nico leaned back in his chair and tried to get his breathing under control. The live feed from the camera drones and news choppers made Kayla''s trial by fire a little too intense for him. When that first rocket hit the car, his heart nearly stopped. The battle was nearly over before he''d been able to do more than just hold on to the arms of the recliner in a white-knuckled grip. He mouthed a silent prayer, one that he hadn''t used since he was a child.

    Kayla lived through it. She lived through her first battle, and she did well.

    He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked to see Eric standing there, holding a full glass of bourbon. "You look like you need this."

    Nodding shakily, Nico took a sip. His friend was dressed in a flight suit with a tactical vest. A heavy pistol was holstered across the front, and he held a ballistic helmet in one hand.

    "A little overdressed, aren''t you?"

    "I''ll change into something more comfortable when I get to Gunnison. Getting ready to head to the airport now. That is, if you''re okay?"

    "I''m¡­ fine. I just didn''t realize how seeing Kayla in danger would affect me."

    "She did good, Nico. She''s doing her part. You have to do yours, also. Ms. Thorp has your publicity schedule, so make sure you stick to that. Kayla and Dillon will be counting on you to drum up support for them."

    Sipping at the bourbon again, the big man nodded. "Anything for her, Eric."

 Chapter 11

    <h2>Chapter 11</h2>

    North of Pueblo, Colorado

    They were fifteen miles from the turnoff to the charging station outside North Pueblo when the lead official sent a message to all of them on the private channel.

    Pedestrians with heavy weapons seen in the vicinity of the charging station. Be careful getting out of your cars.

    "Damn. What do you want to do?" Dillon hit a few buttons on the map screen, trying to bring up an overhead view of the area around the charging station.

    "The flamethrower doesn''t have the range to engage them effectively. You''re going to have to pull in so we can get maximum coverage from the front and rear weapons. And you''ll have to shoot while I''m outside."

    "No, I''ll go outside. You shoot. That''s your job, and I''d rather have you covering me than the other way around."

    "I can do it," she said forcefully. "I''m not afraid of them shooting at me."

    "It''s not that. One, it''s quicker and easier for me to get out. Two, like I said, you''re the gunner. You shoot better than I do, so you''re more likely to take them out than I am. That''s safer overall."

    Despite her grumbling, she didn''t argue further with his logic. They pulled off I-25 and onto Eagleridge Boulevard, which would take them straight to the charging station. The streets were eerily deserted, even though there were plenty of businesses along the way.

    "You get the feeling they know something we don''t?" said Jesse over the radio.

    ***

    Rebekah told the pilot fly ahead of the cars to get a look at the charging station and the area around it. She saw the same warning the racers were given, and a fight in an urban area made it harder to get good camera angles without knowing who was where. She hoped she could pick out the pedestrians and find out which direction they were coming from. Maybe even get an ID on them.

    They reached the charging station, which turned out to be nothing more than a public facility with only a waist-high wall around to prevent curb jumpers. There were buildings on most sides, and the northwest corner opened into a field. There, they could see camouflaged individuals low crawling their way through the grass and dirt. Each carried some kind of weapon; assault rifles primarily, although there were a few rocket launchers.

    Positioning her camera drones for the best angles, she worked quickly to set up her coverage shots while the pilot tracked the locations of the racers. When she was satisfied with the setup, Rebekah signaled the station she needed a live feed. Just as the cars arrived at the station, the light came on, signaling she would be live in a few seconds.

    ***

    The sign on the curb in front of the charging station noted that it was closed for a special event. There were five rows of dual chargers, and as one of the last ones to pull in, Dillon and Kayla were forced to take the spots that were the most exposed to the surroundings. He also noticed that none of the others had gotten out yet to hook up. Great. We get to be the lab rats. On the other hand, we''ll be charged up first.

    He took advantage of unrestricted access to the open row, pulling in at an angle, leaving the rear of the car facing out. Even though it took the brunt of the previous battle, there was only minor damage to the armor, and Kayla could use either the twin machine guns or the Javelin cannon.

    He unlocked his four-point harness, unhooked from the intercom and paused, hand on the door latch. "Ready," he called.

    Kayla eyed the surroundings through the turret gunsight and said, just a little too loudly, "Clear!"

    Popping the door open, he slid out and down, keeping the bulk of the car between him and the street. Nothing happened after a few seconds, so he duckwalked over to the cable and raised himself up to pull it free from the machine. The display lit up, indicating the machine was ready to charge.

    Immediately, he both felt and heard something impact the hood of the car. Fragments of the bullet and pieces of armor spalled around him, and he felt several impacts on his arm and shoulder. "Dammit," he yelled, letting go of the cable and dropping back down behind the car.

    "Dillon, are you okay?" Kayla spun the turret, looking for the shooter.

    He felt around his arm and shoulder. He didn''t find any penetrations, so he called back, "I''m good!"

    "I don''t have a shot. We''re facing the wrong way."

    Aware of movement at the other cars, he kept low and waited. Several rounds impacted in and around the stations behind him. He leapt forward and grabbed the charger cable. Letting his weight pull him back under cover, he dragged the cable with him over to the charging port. With his head down, he raised his hands over his head, trying to feel his way to the port.

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    Two incoming rounds hit their charging station, and it erupted in a cascading shower of sparks. Dillon dropped the cable and put his hands over the back of his neck. The bright lights faded and the display went dark.

    A voice called out over a loudspeaker, "Hey, assholes! That''s my equipment! You''re gonna pay for that!" A slot opened in the control building and an automatic rifle started hammering out short bursts in the direction of the shots.

    Taking advantage of the distraction, Dillon turned and threw himself into the car. Without bothering to buckle up, he slammed it into reverse and pulled away from the stations, almost to the street entrance.

    Focused on his goal, he ignored whatever Kayla was asking. He spun the wheel to the right and took the car along the outer wall, until he was nearly past the last station, and then whipped the wheel into a hard left. Although the angle wasn''t perfect, he could now pull into the other station with their rear end facing the direction of fire.

    "Cover me," he said, getting ready to open the door. This orientation gave the snipers a clear shot at him exiting the car, and he would need a distraction to get to the chargers.

    Kayla started hammering away, alternating machine guns with the cannon. He popped the door open and dove for the ground. Then, crawling under the open door, he made his way to the cable. Completely focused on getting that cable, he tuned out the incoming and outgoing gunfire.

    Reaching up, he pulled the cable down to the ground with him. Then, tugging it along with him while he scooted along the ground, he opened the charger port on that side and plugged it in.

    The machine beeped, and a yellow light on the panel started flashing at him. Right, I have to authorize the charge.

    With a grunt, he popped up and slapped a hand on the button. He dropped back to the ground and watched while it turned green. He gasped out, "We''re plugged in!" and then crawled as quickly as he could to the front of the car, placing its bulk between himself and the snipers. Once there, he leaned back against the grille, adrenaline draining away.

    In front of him, the stations for the other cars were green also. And they could just drive away when they were done, whereas he was going to have to make a two-point turn to get turned around and pointed in the right direction.

    Kayla stopped firing after a bit, and he heard her yell from the interior. "Are you okay?"

    Raising his voice similarly, he said, "Yeah, Just winded. How close are we?"

    "Only seventy percent,"

    They arrived at the station with a fifty-three percent charge. Theoretically, a full charge could take you two hundred miles. There were still one hundred sixty miles to go until their stop in Gunnison for the day. A seed of an idea was shaping up in his head.

    Eric said Highway 50 wasn''t in great shape. That''s going to force slower speeds, or risk blowing out tires. That also means better efficiency from the power plant.

    He yelled out to Kayla, "I''ve got an idea to get into the lead. Possibly a really bad idea, but we need some options here."

    "What is it?"

    "Just tell me when the meter reaches ninety percent."

    The seconds ticked by into minutes. Kayla just reported they were at eighty-five percent when motion to his right caught Dillon''s eye. Two armed people were setting up on the station wall on that side, the wall providing excellent cover.

    With a yell of warning, Dillon rolled over to his left, scrambling around the front to take cover by the right tire. A half second after he moved, bullets started hammering away at the now-exposed racers. There was plenty of screaming and cursing while they sought new positions to protect themselves. Their gunners, caught off-guard by the new position of their opponents, were slow to get their weapons into play.

    Dillon got to his knees, unsure where he should go. He was exposed to fire from the original position of the snipers, and if they were assaulting the station, he definitely needed the car between him and them. The handgun at his side would be of little use here, and he would have to expose himself to fire.

    "Ninety percent," Kaya yelled. "I''ve got no targets!"

    That clinched it for him. He grabbed the charger and unplugged the car, leaving the cable lying on the ground. Scrambling around the open door, he jumped into the car and slammed the door closed.

    "What are we doing?" Kayla was spinning the turret from side to side, scanning for anyone closing on their position.

    "Getting the hell out of here." He clicked the harness into place and started the car. When he got the ''Drive'' indicator, he backed out and to the right. Going out the way he''d planned would put them right into the fight.

    Unfortunately, the wall by the original exit sprouted two pairs of armed figures, and one had a shoulder-fired rocket launcher. The gunner was either a quick thinker or preselected his target, for he fired as soon as he popped up.

    The rocket impacted on the rear of one of the rally cars, sending a small fireball rolling across the exposed racers on that lane. Without stopping to celebrate or check the results, the gunner and his assistant began to reload.

    "Oh, no way are you scorching my paint job," barked Kayla. "Go, Dillon. I''ll take care of them."

    Small arms fire began to pepper the car while he accelerated towards the exit. The flamethrower roared from above, and Kayla played the stream from Hell over the pedestrians.

    They were writhing on the ground when Dillon exited, turning right. This put them back on Eagleridge and heading towards Outlook Boulevard, which would dump them right onto Highway 50.

    With a shaky breath, he asked, "Are we clear?"

    After a few seconds, she whooped. "Free and clear. I don''t see anyone else pulling away yet. We did it!"

    He turned left onto Outlook, fumbling with a water bottle from the cooler on the floor. "Yeah, now we just have to keep the lead all the way to Gunnison."

    "Speaking of which, what exactly is your ''bad'' idea to get into the lead?"

    He turned onto the highway and accelerated up to fifty, well under what he judged as the safe speed for this stretch. "This was it. Unplug before everyone else and get moving first. I didn''t figure on having to do it under close assault, though."

    She leaned forward, looking over his shoulder. "Can we make it on less than a full charge?"

    "We should. The trip computer shows about one hundred eighty-three-mile range. It''s only one hundred and sixty, now less, to the waypoint. That gives us a twenty or so miles of emergency buffer."

    "Hold on," she said, disappearing back into her gunner''s compartment. He heard the sounds of keys clicking for several minutes, and then an three-part vertical bar popped up next to the charge indicator. Currently, the top third was illuminated green.

    "That''s measuring charge versus distance. If you''re green, we''re above the curve and will make it without eating into our buffer. If it turns yellow in the middle, that means we''re on the curve and could fall below the line if we don''t watch ourselves. If it''s red, we''re into our buffer."

    He stared in amazement. "That''s¡­ wow. You did all that in just a few minutes? And hacked into the car''s display?"

    She snorted. "Child''s play for the graph and the bar. And don''t forget, I wrote most of the code for this car''s systems. There''s nothing in here I can''t change on the fly."

    He smiled, glad she couldn''t see his expression inside his helmet. She sounded so damned proud of her ability. "Alright then. Keep an eye out for our fellow racers. I think the Angels aren''t going to be too happy eating our dust."

 Chapter 12

    <h2>Chapter 12</h2>

    Near Penrose, Colorado

    The rest of the pack caught up with them near the Highway 50 and 115 intersection. They heard Gabe on the radio before they saw him.

    "There''s the coward. Thought you could run and leave us to deal with those punks by ourselves?"

    Dillon laughed. "Gabe, I was only thinking about your score. You didn''t get to earn any points back in the Springs, and I didn''t want to be greedy."

    There was no immediate response from the other man, yet a few of the other racers laughed along. The Angel responded by taking the lead back, which Dillon let him have. Just like Kayla said, there were three days to get the lead back.

    ***

    The whole group was required to drop their speed and open the distance between them when they entered the stretch of road that ran alongside the Arkansas River. They''d been warned that the road here was in bad repair, and it was worse than they expected. The highway ran alongside the river itself, winding its way back and forth through tall, rocky walls. These same walls shed numerous rocks over the years, and only the ones that impeded traffic were cleared off the road by the occasional Colorado Department of Transportation crews. Plenty of smaller stones littered the four-lane highway.

    "Good thing there''s a fifty-foot-high canyon wall next to this. This would be a bad place for an ambush." Kayla rotated the turret forward and back, scanning the opposite side of the river.

    Dillon didn''t answer, his eyes tracking Angel car movements and steering the exact same path. He didn''t trust the guy not to shoot him in the back if the cameras weren''t looking, and he did trust in the man''s self-preservation instinct. The road looked like huge bites had been taken out of it on his right. Technically, that''s what the river did. With no one to maintain the road and monitor the spring runoff, the river undercut whole sections of road and washed them away. Pair that with minor landslides from the cliff side, and you''ve got some of the worst sections of road I''ve ever seen.

    "The rest of the group is keeping a good separation." She spun the turret in a three-sixty and sighed. "Nothing to shoot at and no one shooting at us. Am I wrong to be feeling let down by this part of the rally?"

    Absently, he said, "Enjoy it while you can. Get something to eat if you want. We''ve got a way to go, and if this gets any worse, we''ll be crawling along at a snail''s pace."

    She rummaged in the cooler. "You want anything? Drink, snacks?"

    "I''ll take some of that trail mix. Still got half a bottle of water."

    Passing him the bag, she started unwrapping a sandwich. Between mouthfuls, she asked, "We''re not doing too bad, are we?"

    "No. We''re in pretty good shape, actually. And, most importantly, we''re not in last place."

    She laughed. "As long as you''re not in last place, things are on the plus side?"

    He laughed also. "Hey, don''t knock it. Every place you move up is one step closer to winning. And I intend for us to win this thing."

    There was a long pause, and then Kayla asked, "I want us to win, too. I''m¡­ I''m doing that, aren''t I?"

    He almost laughed that off, pausing when something in her tone made him reconsider his response. "Yeah, you are. You''re doing alright, Kayla. Why do you ask?"

    She sighed again, this one long and frustrated. "My dad almost wouldn''t give me the chance. He was too afraid I''d get hurt, and he said I didn''t have experience shooting at people in a real situation."

    "Well, he is your dad. I know my parents really don''t like my career choice, because they think there''s too great a chance of getting hurt or killed. In their mind, there''s so many other, safer things I could be doing."

    "And the shooting part?"

    He held up a hand, waggling it back and forth. "That''s something you can''t tell until you actually do it. I''ve gone up against some people who can drive really well but can''t shoot for shit because they''re either scared of being shot at, or don''t have that killer instinct. The public thinks autoduellists are either violent nuts looking for an outlet, or gun-crazed adrenaline junkies."

    She snorted. "Which one are you?"

    He smiled inside his helmet. "Neither. Well, I will admit to the adrenaline piece, because there''s nothing like crossing the finish line first after a hard-fought battle. Being a good autoduellist is really about commitment. Wanting to finish, wanting to win. Not worrying about the bullets shredding your armor or being scared of the stuff in the road that could send you skidding into a wall."

    "The shooting isn''t hard. It''s like on a simulator, except there''s a lot more noise and shaking. I have some ideas on how to improve our setup¡­ never mind. Dad made it sound like it would be this really hard thing, and it''s not."

    "Kayla¡­" he stopped, wondering if he should tell how hard it could be. To drive past a shattered wreck and see blood all over the inside. Or a severed arm or head amongst the wreckage. "Trust me, it gets worse. I think you can handle it. Just remember how far¨C" His voice cut off when he saw the Angel car slow to a crawl.

    He braked along with them, trying to keep at least two car lengths behind, until the white-painted car came to a complete stop. "Can you see anything from the turret camera?"

    "Nothing obvious¡­ wait. Yeah, there''s a good-sized chunk that''s been washed away. Much bigger than the others. And a small landslide much farther in. I think they''re trying to figure out where it''s safe to cross."

    "Gabe, what''s the holdup? We don''t have time to waste." Jaslyn''s angry voice sounded in their ears.

    "Unless you''d like to go swimming, shut up and give us a minute."

    They waited. After a couple of minutes, the Angels began to steer left, away from the washed-out portion and closer to the landslide. Dillon waited until they were nearly halfway across before he followed.

    The lead vehicle was nearly past the obstacles when it accelerated suddenly, throwing up a shower of dirt and pebbles. Although Dillon and Kayla weren''t close enough to catch the debris, he still grimaced. "Showoffs."

    He continued forward, following their path. From behind, there was the clicking of keys and Kayla muttering to herself. Just when he reached the dirt pile, she gasped. "Dillon, right!"

    Without thinking twice, he swung the yoke to the right and stepped on it. The front left wheel sank suddenly, and only the independent motors for each wheel gave him the torque he needed to keep the car moving forward. They kept going, despite a sudden dip when the left rear wheel start to sink, and then they were past the spot.

    On the other side, he risked a quick look back at his gunner. "What happened?"

    "There was a sinkhole or something under that dirt pile. I saw the Angel car move funny when they drove past and went back over the footage."

    "Those bastards. They weren''t looking for a safe way only, but for a way to get us stuck, or worse, in the river."

    "Well, it didn''t work. For him, at least. The rest of the cars are going slow through that area. It''s going to give us a pretty good lead."

    Once they were past the bad section, he got them up to forty-five again and motioned at the road. "We should be able to hold onto it, then. Doesn''t look like the road is any better."

    There was a hint of worry in Kayla''s voice. "If it''s this bad through Monarch Pass, what do we do?"

    He steered to avoid a suspicious looking pile of dirt from an old landslide. "We creep along at one mile an hour if we need to. Mutant bikers, snipers, and backstabbing teammates won''t stop me and neither will bad roads."

    Thirty minutes later, they were out of the river canyon and approaching the former city of Salida. Cut off from the trucking routes and harried by bandits, the city withered away to nothing. The AADA drone overflights showed minimal human activity and plenty of animal activity.

    They entered the remains of the town, with buildings in various states of disrepair lining the highway. Minutes later, the Angels braked rapidly, forcing him to do the same. Kayla spun her turret to bring the camera to bear, and he saw what was causing the slowdown. A herd of elk grazed along the road, chewing their way through the heavy growth of grass and bushes that covered most of the pavement.

    "Kayla, is our armor rated against elk horns?" Carefully, he followed behind the lead car, keeping an eye to both sides. The lone bull raised his head, still chewing, and gave them a gimlet eye while the convoy passed through his harem.

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    "Just¡­ try and take them head on. Without ramming them, I mean." Her voice was low, almost a whisper.

    ''They can''t hear you, you know," he said in a normal voice.

    Still in a subdued voice, she said, "Better safe than sorry."

    Up ahead, the white and gold car stopped. Rafe''s voice came over the radio, saying only, "Road is blocked."

    Suddenly, a single shot rang out. One of the cows leaped up into the air, and on landing started running straight at the rear of the convoy. She clipped one of the trailing cars on the right front corner, knocking the vehicle several feet. Her leg shattered on impact, and seconds later she collapsed in the road.

    Like it was a signal, multiple weapons began firing from the buildings on both sides of the road. It sounded like hail hitting the car, only this deadly rain was seeking a way inside. The noise caused the elk to scatter, and six-hundred or more-pound bodies were bounding everywhere, seeking an escape.

    "Find us a way out of here!" Dillon shouted, scanning the road on both sides for an opening. The four exits he could see were blocked by debris, and he realized with a shock they''d entered a kill zone.

    Cannon fire rang out from the Angels car, while they battered away at the combination of fallen trees and building material that blocked all four lanes of traffic. Dillon couldn''t see what effect they were having, however. I''m not waiting for them to blow their way through and get shot to pieces while I do.

    He executed a sharp one-eighty turn, raking the buildings with the front cannon when his front end swung around. It didn''t matter if he hit anything or not, just that he was firing back. He accelerated back the way they had come, and he saw other vehicles start to do the same.

    A rocket lanced out from the biggest building on the north side of the road, striking a rally car in the side before they could begin their turn. More rockets arced out, leaving smoke trails hanging in the air while they sought their targets.

    Dillon saw one coming for them and braked hard, steering to the right. Just like he expected, his opponent was aiming for where he expected the car to be. The rocket sailed past and exploded in an empty building on the south side. Meanwhile, Dillon was lining up the rear cannon with the origin of the smoke trail. He fired twice and then gunned the engine.

    "Kayla, we need a way around. Real quick!"

    "Up on your left. The next street after the burned-out restaurant. It''s not blocked."

    He cut left at the intersection, ready to fire on either building while the nose of the car swung around. Nothing interfered with their turn and sped down the two-lane side street. They passed an apartment complex and were into a residential area. He had to slow then, because wrecks, fallen trees, and other hazards made the going difficult.

    "We gonna get back on the highway at some point?"

    Kayla snapped, "I''m trying to find a route on that image they gave us. It''s low-res, so it''s not easy. Y-intersection coming up; take the left, and then the second left. Don''t count the alleyways."

    The abandoned houses made for an eerie drive, and he tried to watch them and the road. Kayla was back on the turret, swinging left and right to watch their flanks. He saw in his rear camera they''d picked up some of the other competitors, although he wasn''t sure how many.

    He turned left onto the new street, and Kayla said, "This will take us back to the highway. Assuming it''s not blocked at some point."

    After four blocks, the road started to clear up. He could see the highway intersection up ahead, and he said, "Get ready. They can probably hear us coming."

    A bullet spanged off the front left panel while he spoke, and he accelerated even more. In a worried tone, his gunner asked, "Are you going to be able to make that turn at this speed?"

    "You worry about those snipers; I''ll worry about the turn."

    The flamethrower roared, first left and then right, coating the buildings on either side of the road with flames. Dillon shot through the conflagration, tires squealing. He swung wide onto Highway 50. The road was clear on this side of the roadblock, and he accelerated up to sixty, wary of upcoming obstacles.

    They cleared the former town of Salida with a huge lead over the rest of the pack, with the rest of them at least a quarter mile behind. Gabe was cursing them out in Spanish over the radio for being left behind, and Dillon didn''t care. Finally, he saw an open road in front of him, and he was going to make the most of it.

    ***

    Approaching Monarch Pass, Colorado

    The ATSS team maintained the lead while they wound their way through the countryside. The forest began to close in on either side of the highway, and gradually the grade steepened. Even more concerning was the sky up ahead.

    "Nothing from Rally Control. I guess that means the road''s still passable." Kayla leaned forward, putting her head next to his.

    "I guess we keep going then. How are these radials on wet roads, or God forbid, snow?"

    She snorted. "Wet roads they can handle, no problem. Just remember you''ve got that heavy front end, with armor and weapons. You start to skid, and it''s going to have a say in the direction you go."

    The radio crackled to life on their channel, and he recognized the voice of one of the minor league cars. There was a slight tremor in it. "You guys see any weather up ahead?"

    "Nope. Cloudy and no rain or anything else."

    "Good. But, um, if you do, let us know in a hurry. One of our tires is showing a drop in pressure. Probably took a good hit back there at the ambush."

    He glanced left and right, where the undergrowth masked the sides of the road and even ventured out onto the asphalt. Saplings and waist-high bushes at the edge gave way quickly to older growth pines, their tops reaching to the sky.

    "Kayla, you got anything in sight that might be a threat?"

    "Nope. I''d have already told you."

    He keyed the mike. "Hey, the road is clear and there are spots up here to pull off. You wanna pull over and do a quick patch job?"

    There was a long pause, and then they replied. "No. Don''t want to lose the time. It should hold until we get to Gunnison. It''s not that far."

    Gabe''s voice came on. "Will you all quit jabbering and pick up the pace? Or just let me pass, Hodges, if you''re too afraid of heights."

    Kayla muttered, "Go ahead, let him. He can be a bullet sponge or find the weak spot in the road. Suits him to be a target."

    Dillon gritted his teeth. The idea of the Angels moving ahead of him bothered him a lot, still he couldn''t deny Kayla''s logic. This wasn''t an event that would be won in one leg. There would be plenty of opportunities for him to take the lead again.

    "Fine, Gabe. You want the lead; you can have it." He veered to the right, hugging the edge of the road.

    He knew the other crew wanted to blow their doors off passing them, however the slope was steep enough that it took several seconds of acceleration for him to build up his speed. The white and gold vehicle slowly drew even, and Dillon looked to the left at them. Gabe gave him the middle finger when he passed, and then their speed was great enough that they shot on ahead.

    "Asshole," he said to himself, forgetting that the intercom was always live.

    "Always was, always will be. Did I tell you he tried to drive for us once?"

    "No. Really? I thought you guys didn''t do sponsorships?"

    "Oh, he wanted to be a test driver. Our annual budget for munitions is greater than what some states spend on their militias. Weapons and targeting software need a lot of testing, and he wanted to be able to play with all that ordnance. Dad wasn''t having him, though. Saw right through the eager beaver act. Boy, was Gabe pissed." She laughed, relishing the memory.

    "He doesn''t seem to hold a grudge against you for not hiring him."

    "Oh, I doubt he even cares to remember. A guy like him, he''s probably convinced himself that he turned us down." She paused to take a drink from her water bottle. "I''ve seen those types. Convinced they''re God''s gift to the world and that nobody could refuse to acknowledge their greatness."

    The mockery in her voice made him turn his head to look at her briefly. "Let me guess; more than one of them hit on you and was shocked when you turned him down."

    "Direct hit. As annoying as it is, the look on their faces was worth it. I have to admit, crushing someone''s worldview of themselves can be immensely satisfying."

    He laughed with her, and then their glee died when they came around the next bend. A heavy fog bank covered the road fifty yards ahead, and Gabe''s taillights were just disappearing into it.

    Letting off the acceleration pedal, Dillon cursed under his breath. "Bastard didn''t even let us know." He toggled the mike. "Heads up, people. There''s a heavy fog bank around the next curve."

    They entered the dim grayness and Dillon slowed even further, down to twenty-five miles per hour. He let the others know how much he''d slowed down, and then both of them kept watch on the road. Visibility was down to about one car length, at best.

    "The road''s getting slick," he told her. "I can feel the tires slipping every now and then."

    "Outside temperature is forty-four degrees. We shouldn''t have to worry about ice, at least."

    A fallen tree emerged out of the fog, like a skeletal hand reaching out to the road. Fortunately, it was just the top that was in the road, and he easily maneuvered around it. Passing the information back to the rest of the cars, and noting that once again, the Angels hadn''t warned them about it, Dillon tried to keep to the middle of the road as best he could.

    Just before they crested the mountain, the fog bank thinned out. Up ahead, the wide-open road greeted them with a dilapidated building and several rusted signs. Looking around, Dillon realized something.

    "Kayla, that wasn''t fog. Those were clouds."

    A puffy layer of gray and white coated the mountainsides below them, and stretched for as far as the eye could see. The sun was bright and lowering in the western sky to their right. There was no sign of the Angels, however.

    Dillon kept their speed down and they started on the downslope side. All too quickly, the clouds closed in around them again, like a blanket thrown over the road. The road was significantly wetter, also. Spray flew to either side while they traveled, and Dillon increased the regenerative braking to keep his speed from climbing too high.

    "Dillon, take it easy going downhill. The map shows lots of curves and switchbacks on this side."

    "Yeah, they need it. This grade is a killer." He resisted using the brakes when the car fishtailed slightly, instead increasing the regenerative braking level again.

    The clouds continued to hamper their vision, and Dillon found he couldn''t shift out of third gear without getting his speed too high. The snow and ice over the decades seriously degraded the road surface, and there were small potholes and cracks everywhere. It was impossible to hug the mountain side of the road, since rocks, tree limbs, and dirt from landslides were piled here and there. He''d stuck to the middle of the road and kept the guardrail on the slope side in his peripheral vision. There were too many breaks in it where something previously went over the side of the road.

    Rain started to fall, a light patter that was irritating even if it wasn''t worrisome. The wipers swept the windshield clean every few seconds, and Dillon felt his nerves fraying. He tried to relax this grip on the wheel and settle into his seat. Kayla was spinning the turret back and forth, scanning behind and ahead. The soft whoosh every few seconds, audible over the slap of the raindrops on the roof was beginning to grate on his nerves.

    "Kayla, can you pick one direction and just stay there?" He realized when he said it that he sounded curt.

    "Oh. Sorry. Just trying to keep an eye on things for you." Her voice was soft and apologetic, with hurt undertones.

    "It''s¡­ okay. Just distracting me. How about you just watch ahead and help me navigate this obstacle course."

    The turret spun to the front, and his gunner didn''t say anything. He could feel the hurt radiating off her, though. Ignoring it as best he could, he focused on his driving. The water on the ground was forming into small streams that made handling difficult. He could feel the backend wobble every so often when they drove through a deeper patch.

    They''d gone less than half a mile when they heard, "Oh shit!" over the radio. Kayla swung the turret to the rear, seeing very little since the clouds hid everything.

    "I got nothing on camera," she reported. "Who was that?"

    "I''m not¨C" he stopped when one of the trailing racers came on the radio. Their voice was strained, and the words clipped.

    "We just lost somebody. They started to hydroplane and hit some debris. It blew the bad tire. They went into a skid right off the road and down the mountain."

 Chapter 13

    <h2>Chapter 13</h2>

    West of Monarch Pass, Colorado

    Nobody said much on the rest of the way down the mountain. It took most of his concentration, and Dillon had no time to think about the loss of one of the racing crews. That is, until the grade evened out. Although it was still raining, without the steep downhill to worry about, it wasn''t a big factor. They were only a few miles from Gunnison and the pit stop for this leg.

    Kayla hadn''t said a word since the incident. He wondered if she was still pissed about him snapping at her. I need to apologize. Make her understand it wasn''t her fault.

    The silence from her seat threatened to overwhelm him. Several times, he tried to say something, and he wasn''t sure he knew the right words. Then the countryside opened up, and they could see the walls of the fortress town up ahead.

    Numerous drones were visible at different altitudes, all bearing logos of various news organizations. Heavily armed Gunnison Police Department vehicles were stationed along the freeway, providing an escort to the town.

    Dillon whistled softly, taking in the sight. He''d expected the media circus when they left Denver, still this was something else. The only people who visited this town were the rich and the famous, and this felt like the kind of welcome they would get.

    "I bet Sammy''s kicking himself now for missing this," Kayla remarked.

    Unable to help himself, the young man laughed. "Sammy was regretting it when we pulled out of Denver this morning. This is just twisting the knife."

    He felt a hand on his shoulder. "We had nothing to do with his choice. I mean, neither Dad nor Eric talked to him after he walked out. The whole idea was to keep you together as a crew."

    He patted her hand. "I know. I''ve known him a long time, and Sammy''s always been stubborn like gum on a sidewalk, and just about as annoying. I really thought I could change his mind, but¡­ here we are." Looking back over his shoulder for a brief glance, he smiled. "You make a pretty good Sammy replacement, I think."

    She stuck out her tongue at him while they passed through the massive gate into the town proper.

    The police guided them to a hotel parking lot. Cleared of all vehicles, it was now a series of portable shelters, housing the repair gear and ordnance each sponsor provided. Kayla previously transmitted the diagnostic log to her team of techs, and when the doors opened, she was surrounded by ATSS personnel and whisked away.

    Dillon got out and stretched. No one greeted him or pestered him with questions, for which he was profoundly grateful. Still, the lack of activity at the lone empty shelter was jarring. In the arena, all the repair facilities were separated from each other. You didn''t see or talk to your opponents there. Before the event, you were checking your car. After¡­ well, the winner talked to the media, the survivors licked their wounds, and the dead were carted away.

    Several of the others were looking at the empty shelter also, and he could see their discomfort. They quickly found other things to do; all except the Angels. Gabe and Rafe weren''t watching the empty shelter; they''d already cracked open cold cans of beer provided by their support team. They were talking animatedly with each other, with a laugh or shoulder punch thrown in.

    Shaking his head, Dillon turned to help the ATSS techs. The sooner they got repairs underway, the sooner he and Kayla could grab something to eat that wasn''t a protein bar and water.

    ***

    Gunnison, Colorado

    There was time for a shower and change of clothes before dinner, and Dillon was surprised at the hotel room. Guess they don''t have anything here less than four stars.

    More than just a room with a bed and a bathroom, it contained a sitting area, complete with a fifty-five-inch screen television. The balcony off the sitting area held two chairs and a low table and afforded a great view of the mountains. A duffel bag on the king-size bed held a change of clothes for tonight, a new jumpsuit for tomorrow, and his toiletries.

    Dinner that night was supplied by the AADA. To continue the low-bulk diet, the buffet contained several kinds of pasta in red and meat sauces, grilled fish, and baked apples with cinnamon. The only drinks provided were water, lemonade, and fruit juice, still nothing precluded the competitors from providing their own drinks.

    The dining room was only a quarter full when he arrived, and it seemed to be mostly the male competitors. It was just one large round table with eight settings. I don''t know if that''s better or worse. I guess having an empty place would be too much of a reminder.

    They''d been informed that interviews would take place after dinner, and several celebrities were on hand that were expected to ''entertain.'' Dillon filled his plate, trying not to think about the interview portion of the evening, and started eating.

    Kayla and a few other women came in about twenty minutes later, talking quietly among themselves. They sat together at the table, continuing their low-voiced conversation. He tried again and again to catch her eye, without success.

    She''s still pissed at me. And she''s not the only one. Across the table, Gabe and Rafe stared at him in between bites. They said nothing to each other or the other teams and drank only water.

    "He don''t like you one bit, son."

    Dillon turned at the voice. He hadn''t realized that someone sat down next to him, and he realized it was Jesse from Quikshred. The lanky older man motioned at Gabe with his fork. "Keep your eye on him. We''re supposed to be in this together until the end, but he won''t pass up a chance to let fate take you out of this thing."

    "Um, yeah. I''d kinda figured that out, back there in the Springs. I don''t know why, though."

    "Cause he''s used to being the big man in the event. The one to beat. You''re showing him up, pulling off the stuff that gets the footage."

    Dillon watched while the two Angels got up and left the dining room. The glower on Gabe''s face tracked with what the older autoduellist was telling him, and he recognized that look. He''d seen it in the arena many times after a competition, when he''d beaten someone who thought they''d had the event in the bag.

    This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    He turned back to Jesse. "You¡¯re not worried about me stealing the spotlight?"

    Chuckling, he swallowed and shook his head. "Son, when you¡¯ve been in this business as long as I have, you learn to appreciate the quiet away from the media. It¡¯s the same questions, over and over. You get so you can answer them in your sleep. It gets mighty tiresome."

    "I could do without the interviews right now." He sighed and started eating again.

    Again the dry chuckle, like gears grinding. "Yeah, I seen some of them. You¡¯re as bad at that as you are good at driving."

    "Um, thanks?"

    "Look, son. If you plan to stay in this job as long or longer than your boss, quit worrying about the media. They play their own game, and they change the rules all the time. Be your own person instead of what they¡¯re trying to make you become."

    After that sage advice, Dillon tried to linger at the dinner table as long as he could, sipping lemonade until his bladder could no longer be ignored. When he exited the bathroom, he saw the doors to the dining room were now closed. All that was left was the interviews in the lounge.

    ***

    Kayla left before Dillon, and she ran into Eric just outside the lounge. He stepped in beside her, his long legs easily matching her pace. She said in a low voice, "Please tell me you have something worked out."

    He nodded slightly, a smile fixed on his face. "I made sure Calen Martins was watching Dillon a lot. You know, the star of the old Highway Warrior series? He''s already talking about all the vids where he''s played an autoduellist out in the badlands and wants to meet our ''top notch driver.'' I''ll introduce the two of them and let nature take its course. Calen will bend Dillon¡¯s ear for hours, and none of the reporters will be brave enough to interrupt."

    She patted his shoulder. "What would we do without you, Eric?"

    "Probably stumble along, bumping into walls and tripping over nothing. You do realize this plan means you''ll have to shoulder the entire interview burden? Not just for the rally but for the company."

    "I know. I can handle it. As long as you keep them away from Dillon. I hate to isolate him like this¡­" her voice trailed off and she sighed.

    "Don''t worry. Kid will probably be relieved he doesn''t have to make a fool of himself yet again."

    ***

    Dillon stifled a yawn while Calen launched into yet another rambling monologue about some movie he''d been in. At first, the young driver was thrilled to meet an actor whose movies had inspired him to compete. The images of the weathered, hard-eyed highway battle trucker, or the cold, calculating arena battler were burned into his memory, and while he knew the realities of the arena now, they still lived on in his dreams.

    Of course, the star actor enjoyed access to the best Gold Cross services, so he looked Dillon¡¯s age. The man had been in his business for over thirty years now, and the sheer number of memories sometimes made for disjointed stories that wound two or three roles together. Calen didn¡¯t seem to notice, however. He¡¯d jump from one memory to the other, with the occasional side commentary on his costars, directors, or moviemaking in general.

    Glancing around, the young man tried to catch a glimpse of Kayla or Eric. He''d seen her coming and going from various interviews, face bright with enthusiasm. I don''t know where she''s getting the energy to answer all those questions. I''m about ready to fall asleep on my feet. Better her than me.

    He felt a little ashamed of that last thought. They were a team. They should be doing these interviews together¡­ and yet he felt only profound joy that he wasn''t out there with her. Although the alternative isn''t much better. At least here, all I have to do is nod and pretend like I''m paying attention.

    Finally, Eric came to his rescue. "My apologies, Mr. Martins. It''s my job to make sure our competitors are well-rested for tomorrow, and I can''t allow them to stay up until all hours."

    Smiling genially, the actor waved a hand at the apology. "No, no, you have your job. And young Dillon here has been a fantastic audience. I do hope you''ll keep in mind some of the lessons I''ve tried to impart to you, young man."

    Standing and shaking Calen''s hand, Dillon said, "They''re ingrained in my mind, sir. Thanks for taking the time to pass them along."

    They walked away, the young man whispering, "I have no memory of anything he said."

    "Shame on you. That man is font of wisdom in the art of autoduelling."

    "I''ll have to take your word for it. Where are we going?"

    They reached the elevators and Eric punched the button. "To bed. That part was true. You need your rest for tomorrow."

    The doors opened just then, and Dillon stepped in, asking, "What about Kayla?"

    "She''s already gone to bed. Be very grateful in the morning, kid. She handled all those interviews without you and did it like a champ. We''re going to have some major media attention on us for this next leg. Make sure you live up to it. Good night."

    Before he could ask what she''d said to the reporters, the doors closed in his face. The last thing he saw was Eric pointing at him and miming putting his head on a pillow.

    Turning the corner into his corridor, he saw Gabe standing at his door. Before he could react, the smaller man noticed him and headed in his direction. Mustering his courage, Dillon continued walking to his room.

    The Angels driver blocked his path, and Dillon stopped. Not wanting to provoke a confrontation, he looked at the other man. "Let me through, Gabe."

    "It''s Gabriel to you, punk. You want to call me Gabe, you have to earn it."

    "Look, Gabriel, it''s late and I''m tired. If¨C"

    The other man cut him off. "Pendejo, shut your mouth. If I want to hear anything out of you, I''ll shake you like a magic eight ball."

    Careful not to roll his eyes, sigh, or do anything to set his adversary off, Dillon waited. After a few moments of eyeing him, Gabe continued. "You got lucky today, rookie. Don''t think you''re going to win this thing. Hell, you''ll be lucky to survive it. That could have been you sliding off the mountain, just like any other jumped-up driver who thinks he¡¯s a real competitor. You and that smug bitch who thinks she''s a real gunner."

    His anger rising, Dillon leaned closer. "Say what you want about me but say another word about my teammate and I''ll paint these walls with your blood."

    Smiling cruelly, Gabe nodded. "So, the puppy has teeth. And a crush on his backseater." He stepped back and spread his arms wide. "Bring it, novato. Show me tomorrow what you really got. Cause I''ve smoked dozens like you in the arena. You ain''t shit, cachorrillo."

    Walking backwards away from Dillon, the other man yipped a few times like a beaten dog. Once he''d disappeared around the corner, Dillon sighed and continued to his room. The adrenaline drained after he¡¯d changed for bed, and he fell into a deep sleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

    ***

    Eric was sitting in the hotel bar, enjoying a whiskey after the evening''s events. Given the media circus back in Denver, this was much less stressful. And the Green River stop will be even quieter. No room there for a media circus.

    Rebekah Walton took the barstool next to his, ordering a vodka tonic. She flashed him her patented smile, and he put his phone down with a sigh.

    "Here I was thinking we skipped the media circus, and the circus comes to town."

    She made a moue of distaste. "Why do you have to be like that, Eric? I haven''t done anything to you."

    "True, you haven''t said anything about me. Dillon? Yes. And when you take shots at our driver, I take it personally."

    A shocked look crossed her face, and she took a sip of her drink. "My, my. Aren''t we possessive? So, it''s you, then. You''re the one who found Dillon and pushed him on your boss."

    Eric took a small swallow of the bourbon and swirled it about in his mouth. He counted to five before swallowing. "God, that''s good stuff. And no comment about internal ATSS practices, Ms. Walton. Especially not to someone who''d use that to make allegations and insinuations."

    Rebekah turned to face him, her face all business now. "Careful, Eric. You don''t want the media to view you in a bad light."

    "I don''t think so, Rebekah. We''re sitting in a bar, both having drinks. Anything we say can be chalked up to the alcohol. Besides, my opinion is worth diddly on the news. You need Basher''s or the team''s take to really have a story." He hoisted his glass in a mocking salute. "Thank God, you''ll never get it."

    "I''ll just keep digging, you know. I always get my story." That was said with a smug little smile, while she took a small sip of her drink.

    He drained the rest of the bourbon and stood up. "I tell you what. I''m going to give this to you for free. You want a real story? Ask yourself why the AADA is having this rally finish in the ass-end of nowhere, where there are no cameras save for what they bring in? Let me know if you find any answers, cause I''ve found dick all so far."

 Chapter 14

    <h2>Chapter 14</h2>

    Breakfast the next morning was a low-key affair. All the teams were sitting together, talking in low voices. Kayla was the last to arrive, and Eric walked to the table with her. Before he turned to leave, he clapped Dillon on the shoulder and said, "Calen was good for over a hundred hits on our page, just this morning. He, or more likely his publicist, posted a picture of you and him sitting together. They got a good shot of you two in close conversation. It looked like the old mentor and his new apprentice, and they captioned it with ''The Next Highway Warrior?'' You know, the movie that made his reputation? Anyway, that got his fans flocking to our page, and the comments are flying."

    Shrugging, the young driver said, "I really don''t remember a thing he said."

    "Don''t matter, kid. However¡­ If you can manage to pull off a maneuver or shot that reminds people of the movie, your ratings will go through the roof. They''re going to be watching you."

    Eric gave Kayla''s shoulder a squeeze when he walked away. Sighing, Dillon picked up a fork and started on the scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. There wasn''t any coffee, just orange juice, and it was fresh. After a few minutes, he realized his partner was only picking at her food.

    "You okay? Did you get enough sleep?"

    She shrugged, eyes focused on the plate. He tried again.

    "Have any problems with the interviews? I looked for you after I was done, but Eric said you''d gone to bed. I''m sorry you had to do that all by yourself. I really wish¨C"

    She cut him off. "No, really, it was fine. I''ve done plenty of press releases and interviews for work, so those weren''t too hard. Of course, I''ve never done five in a row, and like I said before, you''re saying the same things, just in a different way." She stopped talking abruptly, letting out a shaky breath.

    Turning to look at him, she asked in a low voice, "How can you be so calm? All those people that are going to be watching us now, hanging on our every move. Not just our fans but Martins¡¯ also. They want us to be like him, and when we¡¯re not, our ratings will take a dive. Your little reporter friend will pick up on that and run with it. Why aren''t you worried?"

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    He picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite. "I''ve always had that kind of attention on me in the arena. Fans are brutal. They''ll pick your moves apart in the online forums, second and third guessing every decision and every shot you made. I even got it when I worked for my parents. Waiting tables or working the counter, the customers are watching you. The worst ones will justify any mistake as a reason not to tip you."

    Waving the half-eaten bacon around the room, he continued. "Just do what you need to, based on what you know. Never read the comments. Never listen to the post-event analysis by the commentators. They didn''t have to make the hard decision in the heat of the moment. They''re judging you from their comfortable chair, without the adrenaline flowing and the smell of sulfur and burnt metal. More importantly, they don''t hear rounds hammering into the car, wondering if one is going to make it through and paint the inside of the car red."

    Laying her fork down on her plate, she sighed again. "My job is to analyze hundreds of data points and figure out the patterns and trends. My programs give me tables and graphs that show when something isn''t working right, and I have to figure out why. How am I supposed to set that aside?"

    He put a hand on her arm. "By listening to your own inputs. You said you wrote most of that code yourself, right? You know what''s working and what isn''t. Listen to the car. Listen to your weapons. When the rounds start flying, it''s time to show them what you got, not what you thought you might have had. Kayla, you''ve already done it! That fight in the Springs, with the crazy bikers? You reacted great, and I didn''t see any hesitation or second-guessing. Trust yourself, okay? I told your dad I thought you could do this, and so far, I''m right. Just keep doing your job. That''s all."

    She looked unconvinced, and after a few seconds, nodded. After a bit, she even managed to eat something, which Dillon considered a win.

    Outside, in the cold morning, there was no sign of the celebrities that flocked to dinner the night before. Instead, the racers went through their vehicle checkouts in relative peace, and soon they were on the road.

    Once again, the police escorted them to the city limits. The rally didn''t officially start until they crossed that imaginary boundary, and the Angels made sure they led the pack to that point. Dillon was content to let them take the lead and Kayla said nothing, concentrating instead on her controls and the system checks that she''d run three and four times already. Given what happened yesterday, he wasn''t worried about who was in front, since it was looking like things could change even more rapidly than in the arena.