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“SPLIT. SPLIT!”
Cornel yelled into his earpiece as he was nearly completely throttled off the track. Franco’s head snapped back into place, steering expertly so he wouldn’t leave the solid surface and smash into the side wall. He curled himself awkwardly back into place, skidding across the ground with shrieking screams of his tires.
“YOU GOOD?” Cornel implored.
Franco had straightened himself out, having only lightly scraped the side of his car on the wall. The maneuver had tested his reflexes, and he was reassured to find that they were still lively.
“I’m good. I got it,” he spoke into his mic. “Chambers at the back. Chambers at the back.”
It was something that would be hotly contested once the race had ended. Had he intended to steer Franco off the road, or was it an unfortunate mistake?
Franco knew it wasn’t. Terror had always been desperate and hated those who were generally more skilled than him. Franco breathed deeply to settle himself, trying not to fixate on the green car that soared in beside him.
Terror’s ugly mug bore into him like a branding iron. Making him angry was a tactic that other drivers often employed to get into the mind of their opponents. But Franco’s skull was a lush garden of soothing wind chimes. He wasn’t going to let some asshole infiltrate that.
Franco could see Terror’s thick teeth hanging out of his mouth even without looking at him. Terror twisted his car for a second, threatening Franco again with a light, teasing collision.
“Ignore him,” Cornel ordered.
That was Franco’s intention. But he knew Terror was going to do something at Widow’s Peak once again, likely during the last lap. The rest of the drive would be smooth sailing.
Instead of getting infuriated, Franco felt an angelic ease. Terror had shown his cards too early. Franco turned to him briefly as they blasted on, side by side, and gave him a wink.
Terror was mortified. He slammed on the gas, his lips curling around his chompers with a distinctly protruding snout.
That was when Franco remembered that Terror was also a wolf shifter.
It was a highly inconvenient time for it all to come into place, like a puzzle that had been left out in the rain. He channeled it, though, as much as he could, into focusing on a move that would put both Terror and him in jeopardy.
He had to get around the corner of Widow’s Peak without skidding along the walls. If he did, he would slow down, and if he slowed down, either Terror or another driver could take advantage and blast on by. He couldn’t let that happen, not only for his pride but for his safety.
Franco had a lot more motivation to stay alive and well. Violet was his reason. Her beautiful face floated in his mind.
He rounded the track, the attention of the crowd rising. He had merged into fifth, fourth, third, second, then first place, constantly checking his rearview mirror for Terror’s positioning. He always lingered behind him, moving like a predator tracking its prey.
“Stay calm, stay focused,” Cornel said.
Third to the last lap, then the second passed quickly. Then, he jetted past the stands, readying himself for the final lap.
He glared into his rearview mirror. Terror was right there on his tail.
Widow’s Peak was the last menacing turn, the one that either made drivers legends or losers. It came on suddenly like an avalanche. It could swallow him whole if he let it.
But there was no going back.
He slammed on the gas, twisting his wheel severely to the right. Behind him, Terror did the same but did not take his foot off the gas the instant the turn began to straighten out.
Terror was going to rear-end him again, likely pushing him into the wall and triggering a magnificent fury of flames. He thought about the look on Violet’s face when his tires exploded. He never wanted to see that expression again.
“Come on, fucker,” he whispered to himself.
Terror did just what Franco had expected. He surged forward, ready to slam into his car and push him out of bounds. When he was a few inches away, Franco hit the brakes.
Terror’s car screeched as he tried to brake too. But he wasn’t as fast nor as skilled as Franco. Franco moved between braking and hitting the gas in a flurry of patterns that made Terror fly past him but not forward on the track. He moved like a rocket into the side wall, the very wall that he had intended to end Franco’s career with.
“TERROR HAS HIT THE WALL!”
He smashed into it, connecting with a splinter collision of metal on concrete. The car disintegrated on one side like a house of cards. At the same time, Franco was able to readjust, sending himself toward the finish line.
