Rose laughed—a real, thunderous laugh. She reached down and pulled a bottle of cheap tequila from her shredded glovebox.
Ace pulled ahead. The radio tower was five miles out. Victory was his.
But Rose wasn’t dancing. She was brawling . She slammed the Cherry Bomb into each apex, using the guardrails as bumpers, shaving off milliseconds with pure, desperate grit. Her engine overheated, spitting steam. Her tires began to shred.
Ace’s blood turned to ice. “OmniCore, what is this?”
The finish was a narrow slot canyon—too narrow for two.