A marshal's shout outside the garage telling the two racers to get ready, two people to a car, five minutes to the start. Heifeng did not fully grasp why a co-rider was required, but "start in five minutes" needed no explanation. His interest spiked. He wanted the best vantage point to watch the legendary God of War GTR stretch its legs and prove whether the rumored eight hundred plus horsepower was fact or hype. He had heard that name for years and never seen the machine run in anger. This was not a chance he would let slip.
Before he could head out, Chen Ningyun slipped a cap and a mask into his hands. He blinked, then remembered he was a public figure. Of course, she did not want him recognized when the crowd poured toward the barriers. He thanked her for the forethought, tugged them on, and turned to leave for the grandstand.
Ningyun caught his sleeve and tugged him the other way. She had already found him the best seat in the house. Before Heifeng could ask where, she opened the passenger door of a waiting Audi TT and nudged him in. She buckled him up with brisk, unarguable hands and patted the belt latch as if afraid he might wriggle free. The rules required two people per car, she reminded him, so the best view would be from inside the cockpit.
Heifeng curled his lip and asked why she did not take the seat herself. Ningyun's answer was quick and shameless. She got carsick. If she rode through a mountain race, she would be feeding the dashboard. Since that was not happening, he would do the honors.
Heifeng could only laugh. Passenger or not, the right front bucket was indeed the closest place to the action. He settled in to wait for the off. A breath later, the driver slid in beside him. Everyone called her the Black Widow on the circuits, a reputation wrapped in a cool, economical style.
The cabin filled with a clean perfume threaded with the salt of the engine bay and warm rubber. She thanked him simply and told him to grab the handrail if the switchbacks made him queasy. Heifeng said he never got carsick and doubted anyone could drive badly enough to change that. She nodded, tightened her harness, and twisted the key.
The six-cylinder sprang to life with a bright, jagged snarl that echoed in the low corrugated shed. Outside, Ningyun lifted the curtain and flashed them a thumbs-up. Beat the God of War GTR. Defeat Ichiro Fujiwara. The Black Widow answered with a flat "OK," like a mark added to a checklist.
At the line, the rival sat waiting, a silver gray God of War GTR whose bare numbers were spoken in hushes.
If memory served, the stock car mounted a 3.6-liter V6. This one had been dressed in wind-slicing aero parts that kept the original menace while sharpening every edge. People called the GTR amazing, and it was, but most of the machines that inspired awe were modified hard. A factory GTR could steamroll a straight, but could look clumsy when the road coiled tight.
Taming the coils took money and skill. Even the modest-looking TT they occupied had swallowed more than a million in upgrades, money enough to buy two TTs outright, more than ¥1,000,000 in parts and labor, roughly $140,000 at today's rate. Modifying cars was a hobby that burned cash as quickly as gasoline.
The crowd pressed close to the mountain's foot, breath frosting in the dusk. Conversations braided together, every thread carrying the same electric expectation. It was finally starting. People called it a Sino-Japanese duel that might decide the Asian king of the mountain roads.
They reminded each other that Ichiro Fujiwara had lost only once since his debut, and that single loss was to the previous generation's island-country champion. They countered that the Black Widow had run fewer races, yet she had never tasted defeat. They agreed that the truth would be decided by asphalt and nerve on tonight's course.
A young man in a marshal's vest stepped between the cars with a red cloth dangling from one hand. He asked if the drivers were ready and repeated the rules in a clear voice. First to the finish wins. Prepare to start. He counted down from five. Both cars let the revs climb, one a metallic snarl, the other a tightly wound howl that grew until the sound filled the ribcage more than the ear.
The cloth was chopped down. The God of War and the TT launched together, tires scrabbling for a heartbeat, then biting, then slingshotting the cars up the first pitch. The opening segment was a straight uphill. This part was a trial of torque and traction, power translated into forward motion without waste.
By Heifeng's quick estimate, the GTR's build pushed past eight hundred horsepower with about nine hundred newton-meters of torque. The TT could not match that figure on paper, but its light, short-wheelbase body did not waste what it had. In a straight line, the little car leaped hard and clean.
They ran door to door, the mountain narrowing ahead to a dark ribbon bracketed by guardrails and evergreen trunks. Heifeng watched the Black Widow's hands. She was not the most flamboyant driver he had seen, not a showman, but her control was sure and her throttle work neat. You could not judge a driver by the runway. The truth announced itself in the first bend.
To cut time through a turn, some drivers avoided dramatic inertial slides and instead knifed toward the inside apex early, pinning the nose to the tight line, then letting the momentum carry them out to the outer edge. Others preferred to dance the car sideways and bend the corner into a straight with drift. The first hairpin loomed, and decisions had to be made.
The GTR claimed the inside by a fraction and slid through nose-first, a tidy little drift pressed flat against the inner curb. The Black Widow answered by tracing a textbook line, using the TT's short wheelbase to pivot quickly and fire out at the exit. Each approach had its edge, and the gap did not blow open. Heifeng felt himself smiling despite the harness digging into his shoulders. He liked drifting best. Most men did. If you were not going to slide a sports car when the mountain gave you clean tarmac and nothing in the oncoming lane, why drive a sports car at all?