London refused to sleep.
Outside an abandoned multi-storey car park, hundreds of Interpol officers had the place boxed in. Searchlights combed concrete. Four helicopters idled above, rotors thundering. Their objective was singular: Owen Shaw.
On a nearby flyover, Luke Hobbs watched the grid tighten beside Dominic Toretto.
"Toretto," Hobbs said, eyes on the cordon, "looks like Interpol's about to steal the show."
Toretto took in the chessboard of units and vehicles, unimpressed. "They paid heavy to make sure Owen doesn't walk."
"Yeah," Hobbs muttered. "He wants to build a Nightshade system—nobody's letting that happen. Let's see what he's really got."
⸻⸻
Inside the garage, Owen tightened the last bolt on his custom flip car — a low, armoured interceptor with a wedge front designed to launch vehicles clean off the road. The chassis was purpose-built from carbon steel and titanium tubing, every inch tuned for speed and chaos.
[COMMS] Vegh: "Owen, situation's hot. Interpol's heavier than expected. Four birds overhead. If you roll, they open up."
Owen exhaled once. Ballistic skin or not, four gunships could chew through anything if you stayed still long enough.
[COMMS] Arthur: "Owen—drive. I'll handle the birds."
The voice snapped everyone in his crew to attention.
Owen's mouth ticked into a grin. "Copy. Little brother, my life's in your hands."
He stabbed the ignition. The engine screamed. With his thumb he clicked a remote.
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM.
Charges blew along the exits. In the wash of firelight, Owen shot out of the structure and knifed onto the street. Interpol rifles cracked; rounds sparked off the plating in showers of white-hot steel.
"Owen Shaw is mobile!" someone barked over the police net as cruisers surged.
⸻⸻
In the air, one of the helicopters slewed to attack.
A second gunship cut in from range—friendly. Hale Caesar braced behind a mounted heavy, with Toll Road at the stick. The minigun spooled—a ripping metallic roar. Tracers stitched across the night; the hostile bird burst, shearing into flame and corkscrewing away.
On the flyover, Hobbs and Toretto traded a look and moved. Hobbs dropped into his armoured DSS truck and punched it. Toretto slid into his Charger and rolled, voice on his own net:
[COMMS] Toretto: "Han, distance?"
[COMMS] Han: "Five streets out."
[COMMS] Toretto: "Box him in. Don't let Owen breathe."
Another enemy helo dove—Caesar cut it down. Fireball. Debris rained. With the air threat thinned, Owen carved through the city, unchallenged by gravity or fear.
Dozens of Interpol cars howled behind him. Ahead, barricades choked the street.
Owen didn't lift. If he braked, the wall of sirens would swallow him.
A Humvee exploded from a cross-street, ramming into position. Its nose carried a low lift similar to Owen's—clearing sawhorses and tire stacks in a single shove. Inside: Arthur, Simon "Ghost" Riley, Lee Christmas, Yin Yang.
Arthur popped a covered switch. A micro-missile pod irised out of the Humvee's roof and thumped twice—two tight blooms of flame tore into the lead line of police vehicles, blowing open the lane behind Owen.
Owen arrowed toward them, caught a glimpse of his brother in the Humvee's glass, and couldn't help the brief smile.
[COMMS] Owen: "Fancy a race?"
[COMMS] Arthur: "Try not to cry when you lose."
They turned out together and poured on speed. The Humvee wasn't built for this—but this Humvee had been torn down and rebuilt by maniacs. Its torque held. The flip car's engine screamed beside it, the two machines howling in perfect sync—brute force and precision dancing through the London streets.
A heavy motorcycle cut through alleys, hunting an angle: Gisele. Her bike's tuned howl threaded between buses and bollards as she closed the gap on the brothers.
Behind, Toretto's Charger and a string of Interpol sedans fell in, the Charger eating distance with V8 fury.
Ahead, more police tried a rolling roadblock—two cruisers swinging to intercept. Owen and Arthur read it in the same heartbeat. They split aim, clipped both interceptors nose-on with their lifts, and flipped them. The cruisers spun mid-air and smashed back across the lanes into the oncoming convoy, forcing Toretto and Hobbs to react.
Toretto feathered the brake, slid, and cleared the tumbling steel by inches. Hobbs didn't so much as flinch; he drove straight through the chaos, armoured grille battering debris aside.
They hit Royal Avenue. Overwatch was waiting.
Christmas leaned out a side hatch with a light machine gun, Ghost on a scoped rifle. Controlled bursts. No panic. Suppressive fire stitched the asphalt near Toretto's team. Han's car took a hit, suspension buckling, the chassis tipping. Roman yanked him clear and dove behind cover. Both still breathing.
Keep the tempo clean. Clear lanes. Don't get greedy.In and out, Arthur thought, and no one gets to touch him.
[COMMS] Owen: "Tunnel ahead. We split inside. Rally at the mark."
He dropped into the tunnel's mouth, engine note doubling into thunder against tile and concrete. Arthur followed, lights strobing across steel and glass.
At a fork, Owen turned directly...