Chapter 24
Raven
I inhaled the intoxicating blend of burning rubber, high-octane fuel, and raw fear that hung in the night air. The countdown on Mulholland's massive LED screen flashed its final sequence, each number pulsing like my steady heartbeat. Unlike the amateurs surrounding me, my pulse hadn't quickened—killing, racing, it was all the same to me. Just another form of control.
"THREE!"
I caressed Cole's modified Nissan 350Z's steering wheel. Not my custom Veneno, but it would do.
"TWO!"
The crowd's energy crackled like electricity, a symphony of tension and bloodlust.
"ONE!"
I locked eyes with Jax through our side windows. His face a mask of arrogant certainty; mine a predator's calm before the kill.
"GO!"
The world exploded into motion. My foot crushed the accelerator with surgical precision, the Nissan's tires clawing at asphalt like a desperate animal. The G-force slammed me back, but I remained unmoved—a statue of cold calculation as lesser humans would be fighting their vehicle for control.
Jax's McLaren 720S rocketed ahead, its 710 horsepower twin-turbo V8 unleashing a thunderous roar that made my Nissan sound like a whimpering child. The gap between us widened instantly, his exotic supercar disappearing around the first curve before my engine had even hit optimal RPM.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer's voice boomed across the mountain. "This has got to be the most mismatched race in Mulholland history! Thunder Racing's undefeated champion in a $300,000 McLaren 720S against... wait, is that a GIRL in a beat-up Nissan? Can't see her face on the cameras, but that's definitely some purple-haired little girl trying to play with the big boys!"
The crowd erupted in hysterical laughter. The cameras tracking our progress broadcast the comical disparity onto the massive screens—the gleaming McLaren versus Cole's cobbled-together 350Z, with just enough of my silhouette visible to confirm a female driver, but not enough to reveal my identity.
"That's like bringing a butter knife to a nuclear war!" the announcer continued, his voice dripping with mockery. "The McLaren does zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds. That Nissan? Maybe next Tuesday if it's downhill with a tailwind!"
"She won't make it past the second turn!"
"Does she know which pedal does what?"
"Someone call an ambulance now—save time!"
"This isn't a race, folks—it's a suicide note with a hood ornament!"
I smirked inwardly at their pathetic predictions. Idiots. I've outrun military helicopters through mountain passes narrower than your limited minds could comprehend. I've taken corners at 200mph where a millimeter's error meant death.
These weekend warriors thought this constituted danger? Please.
I caught sight of Tyler and Maddie in the VIP section through one of the monitor feeds.
Of course they'd be here, I thought coldly. The social elite never miss an opportunity to be seen at events like this.
They weren't even watching the race—Tyler was whispering something in Maddie's ear that made her giggle and playfully push his chest. Both of them were sipping champagne, looking bored by the "predictable" race unfolding before them.
My eyes drifted to another section of the stands where, to my surprise, I spotted Leo jumping up and down frantically, waving a hastily-made sign that read "DRIVE LIKE YOU STOLE IT, RAVEN!" Maya stood beside him, hands clasped nervously in prayer, but her eyes fierce with determination.
Something unexpectedly warm flickered in my chest at the sight of them—my unlikely friends, the only ones who believed in me.
The first curve approached—a vicious hairpin overlooking a 200-foot drop. Even on the screen, I could see Jax take it conventionally, the McLaren's carbon-ceramic brakes glowing hot as he slowed before accelerating out.
Amateur. I waited until the last possible millisecond before executing a heel-toe downshift so perfect it was almost erotic. The Nissan responded like a lover, hugging the curve with millimeter precision where others would have plummeted to oblivion.
"Did you see that?" The announcer's voice cracked. "She took that turn at full speed—that's physically impossible in a stock 350Z! The laws of physics just filed a restraining order!"
I wasn't even using my right hand, which rested casually on the gearshift. The crowd noticed, their jeers morphing into confused murmurs.
The mountain road uncoiled before us like a deadly serpent—each turn a potential coffin for the unwary. Where others saw danger, I saw opportunity. The McLaren's advantage on straightaways was undeniable, but in the corners—where skill trumped horsepower—I was gaining ground with every turn.
We entered "Dead Man's Drop"—the section that had claimed three lives last year alone. Here, the road narrowed to barely two car-widths, with sheer cliff faces on one side and nothing but empty air on the other. The monitoring cameras thinned out, creating blind spots where races were often "decided" by means beyond mere driving skill.
I smiled. Perfect.
Jax's eyes now checked his mirrors obsessively as I inexplicably closed the gap between us. His McLaren still maintained the lead, but the distance was shrinking with each turn—an impossibility that defied automotive logic. I could read the disbelief in his body language, the growing panic in his increasingly jerky steering.
In the final blind spot, I made my move. Not with brute force, but with art.
I executed a drift so mathematically perfect it defied physics—the car sliding sideways at 90 mph, tires screaming as they hovered at the absolute edge of traction. The maneuver would have made Formula One champions weep with envy. Five seconds later, I was riding Jax's bumper, close enough to count the sweat beads on his neck.
Through his rearview mirror, I locked eyes with him and smiled—the same cold smile I'd given targets seconds before ending them.
His face transformed from arrogance to rage in an instant. "DIRTY BITCH!" he screamed, the words visible on his lips though lost to the wind.
The final curves approached—two hairpin turns separated by a short straightaway. I positioned myself for the kill, but Jax had other ideas. As I pulled alongside on the inside of the curve, he slammed his brakes without warning.
Time crystallized. In that frozen moment, I saw everything: the physics of our momentum, the trajectory of impact, the calculated murder attempt disguised as racing strategy. A normal driver would be dead before they realized what happened.
But I wasn't just a driver. I was Death behind the wheel.
Before his brake lights fully illuminated, I was already countersteering and accelerating—a response so preternaturally fast it seemed I'd known his move before he did. Instead of flying off the cliff, I slid behind him like a ghost, watching with detached amusement as he frantically shifted into reverse.
His eyes met mine through the window—widening in disbelief as his "brilliant" trap disintegrated. I blew him a kiss before stomping the accelerator to the floor.
My front bumper connected with his rear quarter panel at precisely the perfect angle—not random collision but calculated destruction. The impact sent his $300,000 McLaren into a ballet of chaos, carbon fiber and metal screaming as it shredded against the guardrail.
For one suspended moment, his car teetered on the edge of oblivion. Our eyes locked one final time—his wild with terror, mine cold with the professional detachment of an executioner.
"Amateur," I whispered, watching as gravity claimed its prize.
The McLaren disappeared into darkness, the sound of crunching carbon fiber echoing up from the abyss.