The engine roared beneath Juan as he downshifted into the hairpin turn, his modified Camaro's tires screaming against the asphalt. The underground racing circuit had always been dangerous, but tonight felt different. Tonight felt like a trap.
He should have known something was wrong when he spotted the Serpientes' colors in the crowd. The rival gang had no business being at his territory, especially not at their weekly street races. But Juan had been too focused on the prize money to think straight. His crew needed that cash to get some drinks for the weekend, and he had climbed the ranks to become their best driver. Now, as gunfire erupted behind him and bullets sparked off his rear bumper, he realized he'd walked straight into an ambush.
The radio crackled with static before cutting out entirely. Juan cursed under his breath, knowing his backup wasn't coming. The other gang members were handling business across town, leaving him alone in enemy territory with nothing but his wits and whatever he could find in the car.
A black Challenger pulled alongside him, its passenger window rolling down to reveal the barrel of an AK-47. Juan yanked the wheel hard right, his car sliding sideways as automatic fire shredded the air where his head had been moments before. The Camaro's reinforced frame took several hits, spider-webbing the passenger window but holding firm.
Juan reached under his seat, fingers closing around the familiar grip of his Glock 19. But as he brought it up, he realized the magazine was nearly empty. Three rounds, maybe four. Not nearly enough for what was coming.
The Challenger tried to ram him into the concrete barrier, but Juan had been racing these streets since he was got back. He knew every pothole, every crack, every shortcut. He feathered the brakes and let the heavier car overshoot, then punched the accelerator and pulled ahead.
In his rearview mirror, he counted at least five vehicles in pursuit. Two more Challengers, a lifted pickup truck with a machine gun mounted in the bed, and a pair of motorcycles weaving between the larger vehicles like angry wasps. The Serpientes had come prepared for war.
Juan's hands flew over the dashboard, popping open every compartment he could reach while keeping one eye on the road. The glove box yielded a box of .40 caliber rounds that wouldn't fit his 9mm, but underneath the spare ammunition he found something better: a sawed-off shotgun wrapped in an oil-stained towel. The previous owner of this car had been prepared for trouble.
A motorcycle pulled up on his left, the rider raising a MAC-10 submachine gun. Juan didn't hesitate. He brought the shotgun up one-handed and pulled the trigger through his shattered window. The blast caught the rider center mass, sending him cartwheeling off his bike in a spray of blood and chrome. The motorcycle went down hard, sliding into the path of one of the Challengers and causing it to swerve violently into the guardrail.
Four vehicles left, but Juan's shotgun was now empty. He tossed it aside and grabbed the Glock, checking the chamber. Three rounds confirmed. He'd have to make them count.
The pickup truck was gaining fast, its mounted gun chattering as rounds punched through his trunk and rear window. Juan could feel the car losing power as bullets found their mark in the engine bay. Steam began pouring from under the hood, and the temperature gauge spiked into the red.
Ahead, the track curved sharply left before opening onto a straightaway. Juan had an idea, but it would require perfect timing and a lot of luck. He downshifted again, letting the pursuing vehicles close the gap. The second motorcycle was almost on top of him now, its rider leaning low over the handlebars.
Juan waited until the last possible second, then yanked the emergency brake and spun the wheel hard left. The Camaro went into a controlled slide, its rear end swinging around like a pendulum. The motorcycle rider, caught off guard by the sudden maneuver, couldn't adjust in time. He slammed into Juan's passenger door at sixty miles per hour, the impact crushing both rider and machine in a twisted mess of metal and flesh.
The remaining Challenger tried to follow Juan through the turn but took it too fast. The driver lost control, the car flipping end over end before exploding in a ball of orange flame that lit up the night sky.
Two vehicles left: the pickup truck and one final Challenger. Juan's engine was dying, black smoke pouring from the hood, but he was almost to the finish line. Almost to safety. Almost home.
The pickup truck pulled alongside him, the gunner in the bed swiveling his weapon toward Juan's head. This was it. Juan raised his Glock, knowing he had one chance to make this shot count.
The night exploded in muzzle flashes and screaming metal as two warriors fought their final battle at a hundred miles per hour.