Chapter 15 *

Chapter 15 Chapter 15 Devil's Drop
Angelina's POV


Aria's POV


"There's the main tent," Zion said, leading me toward a large white canopy where registration was happening. "We need to check in and get you assigned a car."

A burly man with Redstone Pack tattoos on his forearms sat at a folding table with a clipboard. He looked up as we approached, his eyes sliding over me with obvious disdain.

"Leo Sterling's replacement?" His voice dripped with skepticism.

"That's right," I said flatly.

He snorted. "This should be entertaining. Sign here." He shoved a waiver across the table.

I scanned the waiver—standard liability release, acknowledgment of potential death or serious injury, waiver of all legal claims. I signed without hesitation.

"Your car's the Nissan Z, lot B, space seven. Tyler's got the Porsche." The man's smirk widened. "Good luck, sweetheart. You're gonna need it."

I didn't bother responding. Let them underestimate me. Made things easier.

Zion and I walked through the crowded pit area. Every face we passed showed the same reaction - confusion, amusement, outright mockery. Whispers followed us like a wake.

We found the Nissan Z in lot B. It was a 2024 model, sleek lines, decent specs. Not bad for a stock vehicle. But compared to what I'd driven in my previous life—custom-built machines worth millions, engines tuned to perfection—this was like comparing a pocket knife to a sword.

Still, a weapon was a weapon. And in the right hands, even a pocket knife could be lethal.

I walked around the car, checking the tires, testing the suspension with my hand, opening the hood to inspect the engine. Everything seemed properly maintained. That was something, at least.

"You actually know what you're looking at?" Zion asked, sounding surprised.

"A little," I lied.

"Five minutes to start time!" someone shouted through a megaphone.

"That's my cue." I slid into the driver's seat. The interior smelled of leather and air freshener. I adjusted the seat, the mirrors, tested the pedals. Muscle memory kicked in immediately. My hands knew where everything should be before my conscious mind registered it.

The PA system crackled to life. "All racers to the starting line. Repeat, all racers to the starting line."

I started the engine. It purred to smooth. Not as powerful as I'd like.

The track marshal directed me toward the starting line. As I pulled up, I saw him—Tyler. His Porsche 911 GT3 RS was a beast, midnight black with neon blue accent lines, custom rims that probably cost more than this entire Nissan. He sat in the driver's seat, one arm draped casually over the steering wheel, confidence radiating off him like heat.

I pulled up next to him, my little Nissan looking almost cute beside his monster.

Tyler glanced over, did a double take, then rolled down his window. His face split into a condescending grin.

He laughed, actually laughed. "What is this, bring your daughter to work day?"

I said nothing, just kept my eyes forward. Tyler continued. "What's your name? So I know who to send flowers to after you crash."

Still, I didn't respond.

That seemed to annoy him. "You deaf or just stupid?"

I turned my head slowly, meeting his eyes. Let him see exactly how unimpressed I was.

"Neither. Just bored."

His smile faltered for a second. Then he forced it back, wider than before. "Bored? Honey, you're about to be terrified. This track? It's called the Badlands for a reason. Devil's Drop, Reaper's Curve, Dead Man's Stretch—every turn's got a body count. You sure Leo told - "

"Eyes forward," I cut him off. "The marshal's starting."

Tyler's window rolled up with a sharp mechanical whine. The marshal walked to the center of the starting line, holding up the signal flags. The crowd had gathered along the barriers, faces illuminated by the track lights and the glow of their phones. Drones buzzed overhead, capturing every angle. The big LED screens on either side of the track flickered to life, showing split-screen views of both cars.

I closed my eyes for just a second, let the old instincts wake up fully.

The marshal raised the first flag. Red light.

My hands tightened on the wheel.

Second flag. Red light.

My foot hovered over the gas pedal, muscles coiled.

Third flag. Red light.

Every sound faded away except the rumble of engines, the pounding of my heart, the whisper of wind through the open window.

Green light.

I floored it.






Tyler's POV

The Porsche launched forward like a rocket, the G-force pressing me back into the custom racing seat. This was my domain. The Nissan next to me jumped off the line too, but within seconds, I was already half a car length ahead.

Just as I'd expected.

Through my rearview mirror, I watched her headlights fall back. The gap widened—one car length, then two. By the time we hit the first real turn, "Widow Maker," I was a solid five seconds ahead.

I grinned, gripping the wheel as I powered through the curve, tires gripping the hard-packed dirt perfectly. This Porsche was a goddamn masterpiece.

The girl was trying. I'd give her that. But trying didn't mean shit when you were outgunned and outclassed. This wasn't some Hollywood movie where the underdog miraculously won. This was real racing, and real racing came down to two things: skill and equipment.

I had both. She had neither.

"Pathetic cunt," I muttered, watching her headlights struggle to keep up in the distance. "Meadow Pack's really scraping the bottom of the barrel."

The next section was "Serpent's Tail," a series of S-curves that required precise throttle control. I downshifted, carved through the turns like they were nothing. By the time I exited Serpent's Tail, I'd added another three seconds to my lead. At this rate, I'd finish the race before she even hit the halfway point.

My radio crackled. "Tyler, you're killing it!" That was Marcus, my crew chief. "Lead time is now nine seconds. Keep this pace and you've got it in the bag."

"Copy that," I said, unable to keep the smugness out of my voice. "This is too easy, man. They sent me a lamb to the slaughter."

Marcus laughed. "Hey, their loss is our gain. That's another twenty points in the championship standings. You keep this up, you might actually catch the leaders."

Twenty points. Hell yeah. That would put me in serious contention for the overall title. All I had to do was maintain this pace, avoid stupid mistakes, and collect my prize.

The track ahead opened up into "Devil's Drop"—the most dangerous section of the entire circuit. A steep downhill section that fed directly into a hairpin turn, all of it running along the edge of a three-hundred-foot cliff. No guardrails. No safety barriers.

Most drivers slowed down here, played it safe. Not me. I'd run this track a dozen times. I knew every bump, every crack, every rock. I checked my rearview mirror one last time before entering the blind zone. The girl's headlights were still there, but way back, maybe twenty meters behind. Probably terrified out of her mind.

"Night night, sweetheart," I said to myself, then plunged into Devil's Drop.

The Porsche dove down the slope, the world tilting sickeningly. My stomach lurched even though I'd done this a hundred times. The key was to trust your instincts. Brake too early and you lost momentum. Brake too late and you went over the cliff.

I braked at exactly the right moment, felt the tires bite into the dirt, and swung into the hairpin turn. Perfect. Fucking perfect.

As I accelerated out of the curve, I glanced at the rearview mirror again.

No headlights.

I blinked, looked again. Still nothing.

Where the fuck did she go?

"Marcus, I lost visual on the Nissan," I said into the radio.

"Copy. Checking the monitors." A pause. "Uh, Tyler? We lost her signal too. She's not showing up on any of the cameras."

A cold feeling crept up my spine. "What do you mean she's not showing up?"

"I mean she vanished. Her tracker just... disappeared. Hold on, let me check with race control."

I focused back on the track, but my mind was racing. There was no way she crashed, right? I would've heard something, seen dust clouds or debris. Devil's Drop was tricky, but it wasn't that hard if you knew what you were doing.

Unless she panicked and went over the edge.

"Tyler, race control confirms they've lost her signal," Marcus said, his voice tight. "They're dispatching a safety team to Devil's Drop. You need to—"

"I need to finish the race," I cut him off. "If she crashed, that's on her. I'm not slowing down."

"Tyler—"

"Not. Slowing. Down."

I killed the radio connection and focused on the track ahead. The girl's potential crash wasn't my problem. This was racing. Shit happened. If she couldn't handle the heat, she shouldn't have shown up.

The next section was "Reaper's Curve"—a long, sweeping turn that ran parallel to the cliff edge. Another blind spot for the cameras. I entered the curve. After Reaper's Curve came Dead Man's Stretch, then the final straightaway to the finish line. Three minutes, maybe less, and I'd have my win.

The crowd at the finish line was probably going crazy right now, watching me dominate. Tomorrow, everyone would be talking about how Tyler crushed the competition yet again.

I was halfway through Reaper's Curve when something caught my eye in the rearview mirror.

Headlights.

Close. Very close.

"What the—"

The Nissan exploded out of the darkness behind me, its engine screaming at a pitch that shouldn't have been possible for a stock vehicle. It was less than five meters behind my rear bumper.

How?

How the fuck?

I'd been ahead by at least fifteen seconds. There was no way—absolutely no way—she could've closed that gap. But there she was, riding my ass like a demon, her headlights filling my mirrors.

"No," I muttered, pressing harder on the gas. The Porsche surged forward, but the Nissan matched my speed, staying glued to my tail.

This was impossible.

I took the next turn aggressively, pushing the limits of my tires' grip. The Nissan followed, drifting through the curve with precision that made my jaw drop. She wasn't just keeping up—she was matching me turn for turn, move for move.

Who the hell was this girl?

Panic started to creep in. I'd been so confident, so sure of my victory. But now, with her headlights burning in my mirrors, doubt wormed its way into my mind.

No. No, fuck that. I had the better car. I had more experience. There was no way some random girl could actually beat me.

She was just lucky. That's all. Lucky she'd found some speed somewhere. But luck ran out. It always did.

"Come on, come on," I urged the Porsche, pushing it harder. We exited Reaper's Curve and entered Dead Man's Stretch—a long straightaway that led to the final turn before the finish line.

This was another blind spot.

An idea formed in my mind. If I couldn't beat her with speed, I'd beat her another way.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. She was still there, maybe three meters back now, probably preparing to make her move on the straightaway.

My hand hovered over the gear shift. My foot eased off the gas slightly.

This was survival of the fittest. The strong survived. The weak died. And I was not weak.

I waited until she was right on my bumper, her engine roaring, her intentions clear. She was going to try to pass me.

Not today, sweetheart.

I slammed on the brakes.





Aria's POV

I saw it coming before Tyler even touched the brake pedal.

The way his car dipped slightly. He was going to brake check me. Try to cause a collision.

Probably planned to reverse back and push my car over the cliff, make it look like I'd lost control and crashed.

In my previous life, I'd survived seventeen assassination attempts, three of them during races. Men with far more skill than Tyler had tried to kill me with far more sophisticated methods.

They'd all failed. Tyler didn't stand a chance.

Instead of hitting my brakes like he expected, I did the opposite.

I floored it.

The Nissan's engine screamed, RPM needle slamming into the red zone. I aimed for his rear left quarter panel—the sweet spot for a PIT maneuver.

My front bumper connected with his rear wheel well with a satisfying crunch of metal on metal.

Tyler's Porsche spun sideways, tires shrieking, his rear end swinging around in a perfect 180-degree rotation. I could see his face through his window—eyes wide, mouth open in shock and terror, hands fighting uselessly with the steering wheel.

But I wasn't done.

The moment his car completed its spin, I shifted into reverse, backing up twenty feet to give myself momentum. Tyler's Porsche sat perpendicular to the cliff edge, his door facing me, maybe fifteen feet from the drop.

Through his window, our eyes met.

He understood what was coming.

"No—" he started to say, his hand reaching for the door handle, probably thinking he could bail out.

Too late.

I slammed the Nissan into drive and floored it.

The car launched forward. Tyler's face transformed from shock to terror in the half-second before impact.

My front bumper connected with his driver's side door with a thunderous crash of metal on metal. I kept my foot on the gas, pushing, the Nissan's engine screaming as I drove Tyler's car toward the edge.

I caught one last glimpse of his eyes—wide with the terrible understanding that he was about to die, that there would be no mercy, no last-minute rescue.

Then his front wheels went over the edge.

I slammed on my brakes. The Nissan stopped instantly, its bumper still pressed against the Porsche's crumpled door.

Gravity claimed Tyler's car, pulling it forward and down. For one suspended moment, the car hung at a forty-five-degree angle, caught between earth and air. Tyler's final scream cut through the night.

Then the Porsche disappeared over the edge.

The crash of metal hitting rock. Once. Twice. Three times as the car tumbled down the cliff face.

Then silence.

Then a massive explosion as the fuel tank ruptured and ignited.

I shifted into drive, turned the Nissan around, and headed toward the finish line.