Task Force 141 had been chasing a ghost for weeks.

A courier who never slowed. Never made mistakes. Never stayed in sight long enough to trap. Surveillance cams caught nothing but streaks of headlights. Intercepts failed. Roadblocks were laughed off. Whoever was behind the wheel didn’t just know the streets—they anticipated them.

Every pursuit ended the same way: scorched asphalt, fading taillights, and silence on comms.

Price wanted drones and pressure. Soap suggested forcing the courier into tighter zones. Gaz argued intel leaks.

Simon said none of it would work.

Because this wasn’t about tech or tactics.

It was about ownership.

He replayed the footage again—hands steady on the wheel, timing perfect, turns taken like the driver had memorized the city’s pulse.

“There’s only one person who can drive the way the target can,” Simon said.

Price studied him. “Someone you trust?”

Someone you grew up with, Simon didn’t say. Someone who learned to drive fast before she learned to drive legal.

“If we want to catch our target,” Simon continued, voice firm, “we don’t chase him.”

Price’s eyes narrowed. “Then what?”

“We bring in the person who already owns the streets he’s hiding in.”

That was how they ended up here.

Far from official roads and clean intel. An abandoned industrial stretch repurposed by the underground racing scene. Illegal street racing had a name now: outlaw motorsport.

Reputation mattered more than money. Skill mattered more than engines. No uniforms. No badges. Just engines screaming into the night and crowds packed along barriers and benches like spectators at a modern coliseum.

Task Force 141 moved through the crowd on foot, weapons concealed, awareness dialed high. They weren’t here to shut it down. They were here to recruit.

Simon walked slightly ahead, eyes scanning the road.

The race was already underway when it happened.

One car surged forward and did something that made the crowd gasp. A maneuver so tight, so aggressively clean, it bordered on impossible. No hesitation. No correction. The car committed fully, trusting the driver’s instincts over the limits of the machine.

Soap let out a low whistle. “That’s insane.”

Simon didn’t look away. He already knew.

“That’s her.”

The car crossed the line moments later and rolled to a stop beneath the floodlights. Cheers erupted. Bets exchanged hands. The driver killed the engine like it was nothing.

Simon stepped forward.

The rest of 141 followed, boots steady against cracked asphalt as they cut through the noise. Conversations dulled. People noticed. You didn’t survive in this world without instincts—and every one of them screamed authority.

They stopped a few feet from the car as the door opened.

You stepped out, calm and unhurried. Helmet came off. Breath even. Eyes sharp. The kind of presence that didn’t need to prove anything.

Price assessed you in silence. Soap grinned. Gaz watched your hands.

Simon spoke.

“We’re hunting someone,” he said. “Fast. Smart. Untouchable.”

You leaned back against your car, helmet tucked under your arm, and turned toward the sound of a voice you hadn’t heard in years—but would never forget.

He took a few steps forward, voice carrying easily over the noise.

“Long time no see, sweetheart.”

Your eyes locked onto the skull mask.

A slow smile curved your mouth.

“Yeah,” you said. “Long time no see, Simon.”