The raid scattered the meet the way wind scattered ash—fast, chaotic, and with no regard for who got left behind.
Cars peeled out in panicked bursts. Headlights slashed across bodies sprinting between bumpers. Dom's Charger disappeared into the night with Letty and the others moving like a practiced unit, each of them assuming the same thing without saying it out loud:
Vince had Mia.
Because Vince had volunteered—loud, eager, insistent—back when the sirens first rose and the lot started to crack. He'd shoved into Mia's space and barked, "I got her," the way he always did when he wanted to prove he was useful and loyal.
And for a split second, everyone had believed him.
Then Vince caught sight of Sunny's Civic weaving away and something in him snapped into motion—vindication turning to pursuit, suspicion turning into a sprint.
He ran.
He left.
And in the frantic math of the lot, nobody realized he'd abandoned the one responsibility he'd just claimed.
Mia stood near the edge of the chaos with the car door still open, eyes scanning desperately for Dom as engines screamed and officers shouted. The people she trusted most had vanished into the night because that was what survival demanded—move fast, don't get boxed.
She shouted once—Dom's name—until her throat hurt, but the sirens swallowed it whole.
Jacob felt the moment the truth clicked into place like a seatbelt locking.
Mia was still here.
And she was about to get caught in a sweep she didn't deserve.
"Mia," Jacob said, voice tight, stepping closer. "We're leaving."
Mia's eyes snapped to his. "Dom—"
"I know," Jacob cut in gently but firmly. "We can't find him right now. Vince was supposed to—" He stopped himself from spitting the name like a curse. "It doesn't matter. We go. Now."
Mia hesitated, torn between loyalty and fear, and Jacob could see it: the part of her that wanted to wait because waiting felt like faith.
Then a cruiser's spotlight swung over them and froze them in harsh white, and the moment made the decision for her.
Mia flinched. Jacob's hand closed around her wrist—not yanking, just anchoring.
"Trust me," he said, and his voice didn't sound like a flirt anymore. It sounded like survival.
Mia swallowed hard and nodded once.
Jacob led her through the maze of cars at a quick walk that bordered on a run, weaving between panicked racers and reversing vehicles. A cop shouted something behind them. Someone shoved past. A tire screeched so close it made Mia gasp.
Jacob kept his body between her and the worst of it.
His Supra waited where he'd parked—edge of the lot, a choice he'd made on purpose without knowing he'd need it like this. He opened the passenger door and practically guided Mia inside.
"Seatbelt," he said.
Mia's hands shook as she clicked it in.
Jacob slid into the driver's seat, started the engine, and pulled out with controlled calm—no peel-out, no dramatic rev, just a clean roll that didn't draw attention the way panic did.
For three heartbeats, it almost worked.
Then a cruiser angled into the lane ahead, lights still screaming, cutting the road like a gate.
Mia's breath caught. "Jacob—"
Jacob's hands stayed steady. "It's fine."
He didn't floor it. He didn't slam brakes. He treated the cruiser like a moving obstacle with a predictable arc. He turned early into a narrow side street that looked too tight for comfort, the Supra sliding through with inches to spare.
The cruiser overshot, forced to correct.
They heard the siren swing, searching.
Jacob kept moving.
He took routes that weren't obvious—industrial spurs, service lanes, streets that curved behind warehouses and came out somewhere unexpected. He timed lights like he'd been driving this city for years. He kept the car smooth, never doing anything that would make a cop pick him out as a problem.
Mia stared at him from the passenger seat, breathing shallow, eyes wide.
"You're… really good at this," she whispered, like it was both admiration and fear.
Jacob didn't look at her. "Just keep your head down."
A second cruiser appeared at a cross street, trying to cut across.
Jacob didn't hesitate—he shifted lanes early, slipped behind a delivery truck, let the truck become cover. The cruiser's line faltered for a heartbeat, unsure, and Jacob used that heartbeat like currency.
He wasn't driving like Wanted.
He was driving like Jacob Cooper, the mechanic: careful, precise, invisible.
But the skill beneath it was undeniable, and Mia could feel it.
They got boxed once—two units converging from opposite sides at an intersection—and Jacob's pulse spiked, not with thrill but with rage at how close this had come to swallowing her.
He threaded through the only gap—half a lane between a parked car and a moving sedan—without touching either. Mia's breath turned into a strangled sound.
Then they were out again, the sirens fading behind them like a nightmare losing interest.
Jacob didn't take her to Dom's house.
Not yet.
Not while the raid's net was still snapping shut and the roads around Dom's neighborhood were likely crawling with units.
He drove the safer truth:
Back to his shop.
Cooper's Auto swallowed them with its obedient roll-up door, the alley quiet, the building closing around them like a secret.
Mia sat for a moment in the passenger seat, staring forward, breathing hard.
Then she turned her head slowly to look at Jacob.
"Thank you," she said, voice shaking.
Jacob nodded once, jaw tight. "Yeah."
He didn't say Vince left you.
He didn't say you almost got caught.
He didn't say the cruel thought that had flashed through him mid-escape: This is what enforcement wants—people isolated, scared, forced into mistakes.
He just waited until her breathing steadied and then said softly, "We'll go back when it's calm."
Mia nodded, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand like she hated the tears.
...
Mia's anger didn't cool on the drive back.
It hardened.
Jacob felt it in the way her hands stayed clenched in her lap, in the tightness of her breathing even after the sirens fell behind them, in the way she stared out the window like she could still see the flashing lights in the glass.
When they pulled up to Dom's house, the whole driveway was alive with panic—voices layered over one another, people half-running, headlights sweeping the street as cars returned in bursts.
Dom was in the center of it, still as a post, but the tension in his shoulders gave away how hard he was holding himself together. Letty paced like a caged blade. Jesse looked like he might be sick. Leon kept glancing toward the road like he expected Mia to appear out of the dark any second.
Vince wasn't there yet.
Dom's voice cut through the noise when he saw the Supra roll in. "Mia!"
Mia stepped out and Dom reached her in two strides, pulling her into a hug that was half relief and half anger at the universe for making him feel that relief in the first place. When he let go, his hands stayed on her shoulders like he needed to confirm she was real.
"I'm okay," Mia said quickly, but her voice shook.
Dom's eyes flicked to Jacob. "You got her out?"
Jacob nodded. "Yeah."
Letty exhaled hard, relief and fury mixed. "Good."
Jesse blurted, "We thought—" and stopped because he couldn't finish the sentence.
Mia turned her face away for a second, swallowing emotion. Then she looked back up, jaw set.
"That was supposed to be Vince," she said, voice sharp.
Dom's mouth tightened. He didn't answer because he didn't have to. Everyone knew.
A car pulled up hard at the curb.
Vince spilled out, breathing like he'd been running—not from the raid anymore, but from the sick realization that had caught him halfway home.
He saw Mia in the driveway and his face crumpled with relief that turned immediately into shame.
"Mia—" he started.
Mia cut him off like a slap. "You left me."
Vince froze. "I—"
"You volunteered," Mia said, voice rising, anger finally finding air. "You said you had me. You didn't even look back."
Vince's eyes shone. "I thought you were behind me. I thought you got in—"
"You didn't check," Letty snapped, stepping in, eyes hard.
Vince flinched. "I'm sorry."
Mia's breath hitched. "Sorry doesn't fix it. Do you know what could've happened? Do you know what it felt like standing there when the lights hit us and everyone just—" she gestured helplessly toward the street, toward the memory, "—everyone was gone?"
Dom's voice went low. "Mia."
Mia shook her head, tears threatening but anger keeping them from falling. "No. He needs to hear it."
Vince looked like he wanted to disappear into the pavement. He turned his gaze toward Jacob as if Jacob might be safer to face than Mia's fury.
"Yo… Jacob," Vince said, voice rough. "Thank you. I messed up. Bad."
Jacob stepped forward before the moment could curdle.
He didn't posture. He didn't lecture.
He just kept his voice calm and human.
"Hey," Jacob said, meeting Vince's eyes. "Things happen."
Vince blinked, not expecting kindness. "No, man. That's not—"
"It is," Jacob said gently, cutting him off. "You panicked. We all did. The important part is she's home."
Mia turned toward Jacob, anger still burning. "Jacob—"
Jacob shifted closer to her—not invading, just anchoring. He lowered his voice so it wasn't a performance for the driveway.
"Mia," he said softly. "I know."
Mia's eyes flashed. "He left me."
Jacob nodded once. "Yeah. And you have every right to be mad."
Mia's throat tightened. Her anger wavered just enough to reveal the fear underneath it, and that fear made her hands shake.
Jacob kept his tone steady. "But you're here," he said. "You're safe. Let's—" he searched for a word that wouldn't feel like minimizing, "—let your body catch up first."
Mia swallowed hard, eyes shining now. She looked at Vince again, and the anger softened into something aching.
Vince took a step toward her, cautious like he didn't deserve proximity. "Mia, I swear—"
Mia held up a hand, stopping him. "I don't want to hear 'I swear,' Vince. I want you to think next time."
Vince nodded quickly, shame heavy. "I will."
Dom watched the exchange with tight control, then placed a hand briefly at Mia's back—firm, grounding. "We'll talk inside," Dom said.
Mia nodded, wiping at her eyes, and Jacob felt her lean slightly toward him for half a second—an unconscious search for stability—before she stepped toward the house with Dom and Letty.
Vince lingered near Jacob, still looking sick.
"Seriously," Vince said quietly, voice raw. "Thank you. I… I owe you."
Jacob shook his head. "Just take care of her," he replied. "That's it."
Vince nodded, and for once he didn't have a smart comment. He just looked relieved that Jacob hadn't made him pay for his mistake in public.
Across town, the FBI didn't get a driveway reunion.
They got a cold room and a hotter anger.
In an office that smelled like stale coffee and photocopied paper, a replay of the raid ran on a monitor—flashing lights, bodies scattering, the bait-driver Sunny vanishing into darkness as planned, and then the operation collapsing into the most frustrating kind of outcome:
Nothing.
No Wanted.
No capture.
No usable suspect.
No clean arrest to justify the spectacle.
An agent slammed a folder down onto a table, voice clipped. "We stirred the entire scene and got zero response."
Another agent, jaw tight, said, "No sightings. No ghost vehicle. No extraction opportunity."
Someone else snapped, "And now we've got complaints about excessive presence and no results. Local is angry. Public's angry. BMW's calling every hour."
The lead agent's eyes stayed cold. "We forced movement. That was the objective."
"And the target didn't bite," someone replied, bitter.
Silence.
Then the lead agent said the thing that made the room colder:
"Then we tighten the net until he does."
No one argued.
Because the worst part wasn't failure.
The worst part was that the ghost had learned how to not respond.
A myth that refused to perform was harder to trap than a myth that chased adrenaline.
And tonight's raid—big, loud, carefully staged—had produced only panic and scattered street racers.
No legend.
No proof.
No victory.
Just the humiliating confirmation that they were hunting something that didn't behave like a normal suspect—and wasn't going to volunteer itself just because enforcement asked the city to scream.
...
Jacob drove home with his hands steady and his chest not.
The Supra rolled through sleeping streets as if nothing had happened—no sirens now, no spotlight, no shouting—just red lights blinking over empty intersections and the low hum of Los Angeles trying to pretend it hadn't just panicked itself into knots.
He should've felt relief.
Instead, the quiet made room for his thoughts to catch up, and the thoughts were sharp.
Mia's anger. Vince's shame. Dom's tight silence. The way Sunny had moved through the meet like a candle flame in a windy room—always visible, never quite touched.
Jacob's phone sat dark in the cup holder. He didn't turn on music. He didn't want comfort. Comfort felt like a lie tonight.
The system broke the silence anyway.
The HUD slid into the edge of his vision, crisp as a blade.
THREAT UPDATE: "SUNNY" IDENTIFIEDAFFILIATION: FEDERAL (COVERT ASSET)PROFILE: RENOWNED DRIVER (TRAINED / HIGH CONTROL)CLASSIFICATION: WILDCARDRISK: HIGHNOTE: Targeted bait behavior confirmed
Jacob's stomach dropped.
He'd suspected. He'd felt it in the too-clean smile, in the way the cops had moved around him, in the shape of the raid. But seeing it written like that—FEDERAL—made the world feel narrower.
And then the other part hit harder:
Renowned driver. Trained. High control.
This wasn't some rookie planted with a badge and a flashy car.
This was someone who could drive.
Someone who could survive.
Someone who could keep up long enough to make mistakes expensive for everyone else.
Jacob's jaw tightened until it ached. He didn't speak aloud—he'd learned the shop's walls listened differently, and the system listened always—but the thought burned anyway:
They didn't just send bait.
They sent a hunter wearing bait's skin.
The Supra's engine purred calmly, unaware of the way Jacob's chest tightened with the feeling of being boxed in by forces bigger than street crews and petty rivalries.
He pulled into the alley behind Cooper's Auto, let the roll-up door swallow him, killed the engine, and sat in the dark for a beat with both hands on the wheel.
Not because he needed the pause.
Because he needed to stop himself from doing the thing he always did when fear and anger spiked:
Reaching for the BMW.
Reaching for the helmet.
Reaching for the myth.
He forced himself to breathe instead.
Brian confronted Sunny the next day like a man trying to prove to himself he still had agency.
He found him near a small, low-key spot Hector's people liked—nothing formal, just a cluster of cars and a few guys leaning on hoods in that half-social, half-territorial way the scene carried.
Sunny was there, of course.
Still smiling. Still open. Still nice.
Until Brian stepped into his space.
"Sunny," Brian said.
Sunny's smile held. "Brian, right?"
Brian didn't return it. "We need to talk."
Sunny's eyes flicked around—quick, controlled—then he nodded toward a quieter patch behind a parked car. "Sure."
They stepped out of earshot, but not out of sight. Sunny never put himself fully alone. Brian noticed that immediately.
Brian kept his voice low. "You're not from San Diego."
Sunny's smile stayed in place for half a second too long, then softened into something flatter. "Maybe I am."
Brian leaned in a fraction. "Cut it."
Sunny exhaled slowly, and the friendly act didn't drop like a mask—it folded, neat and practiced, tucked away without a single wasted movement.
When Sunny spoke again, his voice was colder.
"You're not supposed to be talking to me like this," Sunny said.
Brian's jaw tightened. "You almost got people hurt."
Sunny's eyes narrowed slightly. "Welcome to the work."
Brian's stomach turned at the casualness of it. "You're baiting the entire street scene."
Sunny's gaze sharpened into something that finally looked honest. "We're forcing motion," he said. "We're flushing a threat."
"A threat," Brian repeated bitterly. "It's a driver."
Sunny's mouth twitched—almost amusement. "That's what you think because you're local."
Brian stepped closer, anger tightening his chest. "Stay out of Dom's world."
Sunny's eyes didn't flinch. "You need to stay in your lane."
Brian stared. "My lane?"
Sunny's tone went calm and lethal. "Do your job," he said. "Keep your cover. Feed your reports. Stop improvising like you're the hero."
Brian's fists clenched at his sides. "And you? What's your job—making everyone dance?"
Sunny leaned in just enough to make it personal. "My job is the thing you can't do," he said quietly. "My job is to bring him out."
Brian's throat went tight. "You're going to get somebody killed."
Sunny didn't deny it. He just said, "Then you'd better be smart enough to keep your people from being the somebody."
Brian's blood went cold.
Then Sunny's phone buzzed. He checked it, expression unchanged.
Hector approached a moment later, loud and friendly, clapping Sunny's shoulder like they were old friends. "Yo, Sunny! We got a run tomorrow night. You in?"
Brian saw the split-second calculation in Sunny's eyes—professional, automatic. Sunny didn't want to say yes. Saying yes meant exposure. Saying no meant losing the bait's momentum.
So Sunny smiled again—smaller, controlled—and nodded.
"Yeah," Sunny said. "I'm in."
Hector grinned wide. "That's what I'm talking about!"
As Hector walked off, Sunny looked back at Brian with the friendliness still absent.
"You see?" Sunny said quietly. "I don't get to decline. Not if the goal's still alive."
Brian's jaw tightened. "You're hoping Wanted shows."
Sunny's eyes stayed cold. "We're counting on it."
And Brian realized with a sick drop in his stomach that Sunny wasn't just baiting the street scene.
He was inserting himself into it so deep that the scene would carry him forward whether it wanted to or not.
.....
That night—late, after Dom's house had quieted and the city's noise thinned—Vince showed up at Cooper's Auto.
Jacob heard the knock and felt his body tense out of reflex, then forced it down. He opened the door and found Vince standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets, posture awkward like he didn't know how to exist outside his usual swagger.
Vince looked uncomfortable.
Which meant it mattered.
"Yo," Vince said.
Jacob nodded. "Hey."
Vince swallowed once, eyes flicking inside the shop and back out again like he didn't want to look too curious. "Just… wanted to say thanks."
Jacob blinked. "For what?"
Vince's mouth twisted. "Don't do that," he muttered. "For Mia. For getting her out. For… not making me look like a complete piece of shit."
Jacob's chest loosened a fraction. He stepped aside. "Come in."
Vince walked into the bay like he expected tools to jump him. He glanced around, then leaned against a workbench as if needing something solid to hold him up.
His voice came rougher than Jacob expected. "She was mad."
Jacob nodded. "Yeah."
Vince looked away, jaw working. "She should be."
Silence hung between them for a moment—two men who didn't owe each other comfort and didn't really know how to offer it anyway.
Then Vince spoke again, quieter.
"She likes you," Vince said.
Jacob didn't answer immediately.
Vince continued, bitterness and vulnerability tangled together. "And that cop boy. Brian. She smiles at him too." He shook his head once, disgusted with himself. "It's like… I'm standing right there and I'm invisible."
Jacob's throat tightened.
"Mia's not a prize," Jacob said carefully.
Vince's eyes snapped to him, defensive. "I didn't say she was."
Jacob held his gaze. "Yeah, you did," he said softly. "Not with words. With how you talk about her. Like she's Dom's sister you're supposed to end up with. Like she's part of the package."
Vince bristled, then deflated a fraction. "Man…"
Jacob kept his tone gentle, because he wasn't trying to win. "She cares about you," he said. "She does. But if you want it to work—if you want her to see you the way you want her to see you—then you gotta see her as a person first."
Vince stared at the concrete for a long beat.
"Not as Dom's sister," Jacob added. "Not as 'family property.' Not as something you're owed because you've been around."
Vince's jaw tightened, and for once the anger didn't go outward. It went inward—shame turning sharp.
He looked up, eyes narrowed, trying to protect himself with suspicion because suspicion was safer than softness.
"Why the hell are you helping me?" Vince asked.
The question was honest.
It wasn't gratitude. It was confusion.
Jacob swallowed.
Because the true answer was messy: because he understood jealousy, because he understood loneliness, because he'd been the guy outside the circle his whole life, because Mia mattered to him, because he didn't want Vince to become the kind of man who solved pain by hurting people.
He chose a simpler truth.
"Because you're not evil," Jacob said quietly. "You're just… scared."
Vince's face tightened. "I'm not scared."
Jacob didn't argue. He just let the silence call the bluff.
After a moment Vince looked away, breathing through his nose.
"Yeah," Vince muttered. "Maybe."
Jacob nodded once, voice soft. "And because what's coming next…" He stopped himself. He couldn't say the system warned me. He couldn't say Sunny is a fed and a driver. He couldn't say enforcement is tightening the net around all of you.
So he said the part Vince could understand.
"…it's bigger than your pride," Jacob finished.
Vince studied him, suspicion still there, but quieter now—like he'd filed Jacob in a new category: not friend, not enemy, something more complicated.
He pushed off the bench and nodded once, awkward. "Alright," he said. "I hear you."
Then he hesitated at the door, like one last thing needed to be said.
"Don't… don't tell Mia I came here," Vince muttered.
Jacob's mouth twitched. "I won't."
Vince left into the night, and Jacob stood in the doorway for a long moment watching the streetlights flicker.
The system's warning echoed in his head again.
Sunny: fed. Renowned driver. Wildcard. Threat.
Jacob felt the trap tightening from every direction now—not just around him, but around everyone he'd started to care about.
And that was the most dangerous change of all.
..
Brian showed up at Cooper's Auto like he'd been holding his breath for hours and finally decided breathing mattered more than pride.
It was late enough that the street outside had thinned, the industrial block quiet except for the distant hum of trucks. Jacob had been wiping down a workbench he didn't need to wipe down—hands moving because his mind wouldn't settle—when the knock came.
He opened the door and found Brian standing there in plain clothes, posture tight, eyes bright with anger that didn't know where to go.
"Hey," Jacob said.
Brian didn't bother with small talk. "This is insane," he said immediately.
Jacob stepped aside. "Come in."
Brian walked into the bay like the air itself annoyed him. He ran a hand over his hair, pacing once, then stopped as if pacing made him look weak.
"They're using him," Brian said—meaning Sunny without needing to name him. "They're using the whole scene. They're pushing people like pieces."
Jacob's chest tightened. "The FBI."
Brian shot him a look. "Yeah. The FBI."
He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "They're acting like they own the city. Like everyone in it is just… collateral."
Jacob watched Brian's face and recognized something uncomfortable in it: disgust. Not with the street racers. With his own side.
"What's the plan?" Jacob asked quietly.
Brian hesitated—just a fraction—then exhaled like he couldn't keep it in. "Sunny's going on a crew run tomorrow," he said. "With Hector."
Jacob felt his stomach drop.
He didn't need the system to tell him what that meant. Hector runs drew attention like fire drew oxygen. Even when they were "low key," they weren't invisible. And with Sunny in the middle, it wouldn't just be a run.
It would be a stage.
Jacob's voice stayed controlled. "How do you know?"
Brian's jaw clenched. "Because I confronted him," he admitted, frustration flashing. "And because he basically told me. He dropped the act. Told me to stay in my lane."
Jacob's eyebrows lifted slightly. "He said that?"
Brian nodded, bitter. "Like he's the only one doing 'real work.' Like I'm just… local noise."
Jacob felt the words settle in his chest like a warning bell.
Sunny wasn't just bait. Sunny was an operator. A driver good enough to survive the chaos he helped create.
Jacob's mind flicked to the system's classification: Wildcard. Threat. Renowned driver.
He believed it now more than ever.
Jacob leaned lightly against the workbench, breathing slow. "He's joining Hector," he repeated. "Tomorrow night."
Brian nodded. "He didn't have a choice. That's what he said. He made it sound like… he's being pushed too."
Jacob's mouth tightened. "Or he wants you to believe he is."
Brian's eyes narrowed. "Yeah," he admitted. "Maybe."
For a beat, the two of them just stood there—two men trapped between worlds they didn't fully trust, both watching the city become a chessboard.
Then Jacob surprised himself by saying, "Thank you."
Brian blinked. "For what?"
"For telling me," Jacob said simply. "For… being honest about it."
Brian's expression flickered—caught off guard by gratitude. "Don't thank me," he muttered. "I'm not… I'm not doing this for you."
Jacob nodded. "I know."
Brian rubbed his face with the heel of his hand, then looked up again, voice rougher. "You saw what happened at the raid. That was supposed to be contained. It wasn't. And now they're doubling down." His eyes sharpened. "They're going to hit that run. One way or another."
Jacob's throat went tight. "Yeah," he said, because the truth of it was already settling into him like a stone.
If Sunny was on the run, enforcement would be nearby.
Not because they cared about Hector's people.
Because they cared about what Sunny might draw out.
Because they wanted Wanted.
And if Wanted didn't show, they'd still get something: names, arrests, pressure, movement. Another shove of the street scene into panic.
Jacob's hands curled into fists at his sides.
Brian's gaze flicked around the shop, then back to Jacob, and his voice softened just a fraction. "You okay?"
Jacob almost laughed.
He'd been asked that question a hundred different ways lately. It never landed the same.
"I'm… managing," Jacob said.
Brian studied him for a beat, then asked, "Where were you when that raid hit?"
Jacob hesitated.
He didn't want to drag Mia into Brian's world. He didn't want to make her a detail in a cop's report, even unintentionally.
But Brian was already halfway in, and Jacob wasn't in the mood to keep everything sealed.
So Jacob let the truth out, quiet and clean.
"Mia got left behind," Jacob said.
Brian froze. "What?"
Jacob's voice stayed controlled, but something in it tightened. "Everybody thought Vince was taking her. He volunteered and then… didn't." Jacob exhaled slowly. "I drove her out."
Brian's face changed—shock first, then something like alarm. "Are you serious?"
Jacob nodded once.
Brian's jaw clenched hard. "Jesus."
He took a step toward the door without thinking, the cop in him snapping into protective mode even off duty. "Is she okay?"
"She's okay," Jacob said. "She got home."
Brian's eyes stayed sharp. "And Dom?"
"Dom's fine," Jacob replied. "Angry. But fine."
Brian didn't look reassured.
He looked like someone had just shoved a new weight onto his chest.
He ran a hand through his hair again, breathing hard. "I need to check on her," he said, voice tight.
Jacob nodded. "Yeah."
Brian paused at the door and looked back at Jacob, expression conflicted. "You should've called me."
Jacob held his gaze. "And told you what," he asked softly. "That your department was sweeping the lot and my best option was to put Mia in a car and disappear?"
Brian flinched slightly at the truth in it.
He didn't argue.
He just nodded once, stiff, and stepped out into the night.
Jacob watched him go, the Mitsubishi's engine starting, taillights sliding away down the dark street.
Then the shop fell quiet again.
Jacob stood in the silence and felt the decision space opening up in his chest like a wound.
Hector's run.
Sunny joining.
Enforcement already hungry, already angry, already embarrassed by a raid that yielded nothing they could put in cuffs.
Jacob's mind ran through the possibilities with cold clarity:
If Sunny showed, the police would show.If the police showed, Dom's world would get hit again.If Dom's world got hit again, someone would get hurt—maybe Mia this time, maybe Jesse, maybe Leon.And if the ghost didn't appear, enforcement would tighten anyway, because failure didn't make them stop—it made them squeeze harder.
Jacob's gaze drifted toward the back of the shop—toward the empty hidden bay that had once held the BMW before he moved it offsite.
He could almost feel the car even from here, locked in a steel container behind cameras and a gate code.
The myth resting in darkness.
The system's voice didn't speak out loud, but Jacob could feel it waiting behind his eyes like a coiled spring.
He swallowed hard and stared at the concrete floor as if it could give him an answer.
He didn't want to go to Hector's run.
He didn't want to answer bait with myth.
But if Sunny was there, the run wasn't safe whether Wanted showed or not.
That was the cruelest part.
The ghost didn't have to appear for the city to bleed.
Jacob stood alone in his shop and realized the shape of the trap:
Enforcement had learned how to make the street scene move without the ghost.
And that meant Jacob's absence was no longer protection.
It was just… one more variable they'd learned to plan around.
...
Hector's run started the way runs were supposed to start—quiet, clean, and almost believable.
A small pack slid onto the freeway in staggered formation, each car spaced like ordinary traffic if you didn't know what to look for. The night air carried warm rubber and the faint salt of the west, and the city lights sat low on the horizon like a different world.
Sunny fit into the crew like he'd always been there.
He laughed over the radio at the right moments. He didn't push for the lead. He kept his Civic tidy in the lane, steady hands, smooth inputs—the kind of driving that made people relax around you. He looked like another hungry racer trying to earn a place.
For a while, nothing went wrong.
Then the shadows behind them shifted.
It started as a thread in the soundscape—an engine note too sharp to be any of theirs, metallic and high like a blade being drawn. A few drivers heard it and glanced at their mirrors. Sunny heard it too—his head tilted slightly, as if listening for a song he half-remembered.
The silhouette crawled up through darkness and became real under a streetlight.
Blue. Silver. Razor-livery.
The BMW M3 GTR.
Wanted.
It didn't blast in with drama. It slid into the formation with terrifying ease—no horn, no rev, no shove—just a smooth insertion between two cars like it had measured the gap in advance.
Then it took the front without asking.
The radio erupted.
"Yo—no way—""Hector, that's him—""Hold—hold—don't do anything stupid—"
Hector's voice came tight, trying to sound in control. "Everybody chill. Stay smooth. Don't crowd him."
For several minutes the pack followed the BMW like it was gravity. The ghost didn't show off. It guided—clean line, stable pace, a presence that made everyone behind it drive a little more carefully because they suddenly didn't want to be the idiot who ruined a myth.
Sunny stayed close.
Not recklessly close—just… consistently close. Like he couldn't help himself. Like a racer with pride had decided he had to see what the ghost really did up front.
Jacob felt that closeness in his mirrors and hated it.
He didn't need a system warning to taste what it was doing: keeping eyes locked on his vector, keeping the pack's attention fixed, keeping the night from dissolving back into anonymity.
Then the city answered.
Red-blue lights flared behind them in the distance—multiple units, angles too clean, timing too perfect. Sirens rose into a hard chord that made the freeway feel suddenly narrow.
"Cops!" someone shouted over the radio.
Hector's crew scattered on instinct—cars peeling off at different exits, slipping into lanes, breaking formation like glass. The pack became fragments.
And Sunny stayed on the BMW.
He drove like he had something to prove now—pushing harder, weaving through gaps with a little flourish, exactly the kind of behavior that looked like ego from a helicopter.
But Jacob felt the other truth underneath it:
Sunny's line was a breadcrumb trail.
The sirens didn't lose faith when Jacob took a turn that should've broken pursuit.
They stayed. They converged.
Because Sunny was still there, still in the frame, still acting like a rival racer instead of a guided hand.
Jacob pulled off the freeway and into industrial arteries where the streetlights were spaced wider and the shadows between warehouses felt thick enough to hide in. The BMW moved like it was born for this—smooth, predatory, refusing to hesitate.
Sunny followed.
Not perfectly—Jacob still controlled the gap—but close enough to keep the chase alive behind them. Close enough that the sirens didn't fade into "maybe later."
Jacob made a decision the moment he felt it tighten:
He was done being dragged.
He cut into an abandoned industrial lot—wide cracked concrete, dead loading bays, warehouses looming like sleeping giants. Plenty of exits. Plenty of space. A place where the chase could stop being speed and become truth.
The BMW rolled deep into the lot and stopped.
Its engine idled low, angry.
Sunny's Civic slid in behind him and stopped too, tires whispering.
Sirens were still distant—close enough to hear, far enough that Jacob had minutes, not seconds.
Jacob stepped out of the BMW.
Black helmet on. Visor down.
The night air hit him like cold water. His body still carried the hum of the chase in the bones, but his hands were steady on purpose.
Sunny got out as well, and for a moment he wore the persona like armor—hands open, grin easy, voice loud enough to sound friendly even in emptiness.
"Man," Sunny called, laughing a little. "That thing's crazy. You always show up like that? Just… take over?"
Jacob didn't answer.
Sunny's grin flickered—then returned, softer. "Hey, I'm not trying to start anything. I just wanted to see if the stories were real."
Jacob tilted his head slightly.
The sirens grew louder by a hair.
Sunny's eyes flicked toward the lot entrance, then back to Jacob. He took two steps closer, still wearing "nice guy" in the shoulders.
Then his hand moved.
A pistol appeared—clean draw, practiced, not shaky. The friendliness folded away like it had never existed.
"Alright," Sunny said, voice cold now. "Hands up. On the ground. Don't make this hard."
Jacob's chest tightened—not with fear, but with something uglier: recognition.
So this was the truth.
Not a racer. Not a challenger.
An extractor.
Jacob lifted his hands slowly—not surrender, just compliance enough to make Sunny commit to the moment. Sunny's stance adjusted, attention narrowing to Jacob's wrists, his posture, the threat he thought he controlled.
Jacob moved.
Not with showy choreography. With ruthless closeness.
He surged inside Sunny's line, turning the gun into a liability. Sunny tried to step back and re-aim, but Jacob was already there—one hand slapping the weapon off line, the other driving into Sunny's shoulder to disrupt his balance.
Sunny grunted and swung the gun back toward Jacob's chest.
Jacob's wrist caught Sunny's gun hand. The grip was iron. The angle wrong. Sunny fought, disciplined and strong, trying to reassert control.
Jacob didn't "outfight" him with bravado.
He out-fought him with refusal.
He drove forward, crowded Sunny's space until the weapon couldn't breathe, then wrenched the gun free with a violent twist that made Sunny's fingers fail.
The pistol hit the concrete with a sharp clatter.
Sunny's eyes flashed—surprise, anger—and he lunged bare-handed, fast and trained.
Jacob met him.
A short, brutal exchange—close enough that both men's breathing became the loudest thing in the lot. Sunny threw clean combinations, trying to create distance. Jacob kept collapsing that distance, turning it into grappling, turning every inch into leverage.
A punch glanced off Jacob's helmet with a hollow thud.
Jacob answered with an elbow to the body—not theatrical, just effective.
Sunny staggered half a step.
Jacob didn't let him reset.
He drove Sunny backward, hooked a leg, and dumped him onto the concrete with controlled violence. Sunny hit hard, sucked in air, tried to scramble up.
Jacob didn't give him time.
He pinned him long enough for the fight to end the only way Jacob needed it to end: with Sunny unable to stand.
Sunny's body went slack, consciousness slipping out like a light turned off too fast.
Jacob stayed kneeling for a second, breathing hard, staring at the unconscious man.
The lesson wasn't meant to be cruelty.
It was meant to be memory.
A message written in pain: you don't get to point a gun at me and call it work.
Sirens swelled closer—definitely close now. Jacob could hear tires somewhere beyond the lot, the rise of engines, the shouted chatter of radios.
He stood.
He didn't take Sunny with him.
He didn't want a hostage. He didn't want to become that kind of monster.
He wanted Sunny to wake up in the aftermath—on cold concrete, in his own skin, with his own car right there—and understand that the ghost wasn't a prize you could claim.
Jacob picked up the pistol carefully, wiped it down with the hem of his sleeve without thinking, and placed it on the hood of Sunny's Civic—visible, deliberate. Not stolen. Not hidden. A statement: I could have. I didn't.
Then Jacob walked back to the BMW.
He didn't run. He didn't panic. He slid into the driver's seat like this was just another night.
The engine ignited with that familiar metallic snarl, alive and hungry.
As Jacob drove out of the lot, he saw headlights spill into the entrance—LAPD units arriving, hard and fast.
They would find Sunny.
They would find the Civic.
They would find an unconscious "racer" with a gun nearby and a story he would have to explain without admitting what he really was.
Jacob didn't look back.
He left Sunny there with his own car and his own consequences.
And as the BMW disappeared into the industrial dark, the city's confusion deepened—not because the ghost had been seen…
…but because the ghost had chosen, for once, not to run from enforcement.
It had chosen to teach.