Need for Speed (19 page)

Tobey was still in the lead, and Dino was still in third place. But he'd managed to creep up on the second-place McLaren. Suddenly he was right on Texas Mike's left fender. They went into a hard right-hand corner and actually hit each other.

Then they came to a vicious hairpin turn. Tobey went through smoothly, but drifting side by side, Dino brutally swerved into the McLaren. Texas Mike lost control, steered too wide outside the line, and went over the embankment. His McLaren began tumbling at more than 110 mph. There was another storm of fire and sparks as the car was quickly demolished.

Monarch was right on the crash.

“Rubbin' might be racin',” he reported. “But Texas Mike just got barbequed . . . Dino Brewster just flicked him and the McLaren into a roll. You know what this means, my children? This race is now definitely personal between the last two men standing.”

Tobey saw the McLaren wreck in his rearview mirror. When the smoke cleared, Dino's Lambo was suddenly just two car lengths behind him. And behind Dino were at least six police cars in very hot pursuit.

Dino quickly closed the gap on Tobey. In seconds, he was in the exact same position he'd been that night he'd killed Little Pete. Tobey had no trouble seeing Dino in his rearview mirror. He could almost reach out and touch him. His rival's face was a mask of pure anger.

Tobey knew Dino well. He knew his rival was desperate at that moment—for money, for revenge, even to destroy evidence. This meant he was capable of doing anything.

As Tobey had predicted, an instant later, Dino made his move. He tried to force the Koenigsegg off the road. But Tobey had been waiting for the maneuver and countered it immediately—but in a highly unusual way. Instead of hitting the gas and trying to get away, he slammed on his brakes instead, allowing Dino to streak by him.

Monarch was confused—and so were his thousands of listeners around the globe.

“Tobey Marshall just let Dino get by him!” Monarch shouted like a madman. “Wake up, Tobey! Wake up and smell that two-million-dollar Lambo in your pocket! My people?! My children! It's a two-man duel to the finish . . .”

But no sooner had Dino gone by him when Tobey immediately pulled in behind him. Now he was riding the Lambo's rear bumper.

Dino looked in his mirror and quickly realized what Tobey was doing. The tables had been turned. Now
he
was suddenly in the same vulnerable position that Little Pete had found himself in the night he died. The front of Tobey's Koenigsegg was just an inch away from Dino's back bumper, even as both cars were going in excess of 190 mph. A towering lighthouse was just up ahead. That was the finish line. It was literally right around the next corner.

Tobey gripped the wheel as tight as he could and smiled grimly. He'd finally achieved a long and dark goal. All those days in prison, the solitary weeks and months, saying his prayer, doing his push-ups—just hoping he'd have a chance to be where he was at that exact moment. To make Dino feel exactly how Little Pete felt seconds before his death.

But now what? He was here. He'd reached his objective. But what did it mean? And what should he do next?

He whispered, “Pete, if you're with me, I need you to tell me what to do.”

His RPMs redlined at that moment. He was going flat-out, more than 220 mph.

Suddenly Tobey cut his car across the back of Dino's draft. This served to slingshot the Koenigsegg along to the other side of the Lambo.

Dino saw this and thought he'd died and gone to heaven. He immediately swerved right into Tobey's path in a bid to take him out once and for all . . .

And there it was: all those hours and days Tobey had spent reliving every racing move he'd ever made—it all came flooding back to him. Pete was speaking to him from on high.

Suddenly, Tobey knew exactly what to do.

He slammed on his brakes again. This forced Dino to slide in front of him—and right across the road. The Lambo hit the gravel shoulder at tremendously high speed, and the lack of traction sent it flipping over and over—and over. Finally landing on its roof, it slid right up to the edge of the cliff, where it burst into flames.

Monarch could not contain himself.

“Dino took a swing!” he yelled. “And he missed because Tobey was ready for it! Dino has flipped his Elemento! Dino Brewster is out! Down goes Dino! Down goes Dino! Tobey Marshall is the last man standing. He's going to win the De Leon!”

It was all Tobey could do to keep his cool. He'd watched Dino's crash in his rearview mirror. He saw the Lambo catch on fire, creating a cloud of thick black smoke almost instantly. He saw the flames begin to devour Dino's car.

“Monarch Mania!” Monarch kept shouting. “This is the most insane De Leon ever run . . . I've had some wrecks in years past—but here? Every car but one is gone! This Marshall kid will make a milk run home to victory . . .”

But suddenly Tobey was feeling very strange. Yes, he'd accomplished his goal and more—basically he'd allowed Dino to kill himself. But nothing he'd done in prison had prepared him for
this
moment. The moment
after
his supposed triumph.

Dino was burning to death, just as Little Pete had burned. And it had been Dino's own fault; his own desperate ego had caused his horrific crash. But what should Tobey do now?

He suddenly swore at himself in a very loud voice, “You didn't figure out
everything
, you dickhead!”

Then in less than a half second, he whipped the Koenigsegg supercar into a 180-degree turn and headed back to Dino's wreck.

Monarch couldn't believe what he was seeing.

“Wait a moment,” he told his followers. “What the hell is going on down there? Are my eyes deceiving me?”

Tobey skidded to a stop near the wrecked Lambo and jumped out. Pulling off his jacket, he ran toward the driver's side of the nearly totally engulfed car, hearing Dino's cries for help. Using the jacket for protection, he reached into the flames, grabbed Dino by his leather jacket, and roughly pulled him out of the wreck.

Monarch was flabbergasted.

“Tobey, what are you doing to me?” he yelled. “You are a half mile from the finish! Go to the lighthouse, kid! Go to the lighthouse!”

Tobey dragged his dazed rival about twenty feet from the burning car, pulling him up into a sitting position and letting him suck in some clean fresh air.

“Are you okay?” Tobey asked him. “Are you hurt?”

Dino just shook his head. “I'm okay,” he said, just barely able to talk. “I'm okay . . .”

“That's good,” Tobey said. “Because Pete says hello.”

Tobey reared back and delivered a massive right cross to Dino's head. He'd never hit anyone so hard before, inside prison or out. It was so powerful Dino was slammed face-first into the pavement.

Then Tobey heard something in the near distance. Sirens. Coming on fast.

He hustled back to the Koenigsegg just as the police cars arrived on the scene. Two stopped near where Dino lay; four more continued their pursuit of Tobey.

He jumped back into the Koenigsegg and floored it. He just about literally flew toward the lighthouse—the police right on his tail.

He breathed in deeply. He knew
now
was the time to focus on what he did best. That is, driving flawlessly at the speed of light.

He crossed the finish line just moments later. That's all it took. It went by in a flash but he felt Pete was with him at that moment. Sitting right next to him, laughing as usual.

He'd completed his friend's vision. After all that had happened,
that
was the most important thing of all.

Tobey simply parked the car and waited. The police cars screeched up in back of him, surrounding him with sirens and flashing lights. He put his hands out the window, then opened the door and got out.

He lay down on the ground spread eagle, to make it easier for the cops to handcuff him.

He was beat up, dirty, sweaty, had burns on his hands, and was completely exhausted. And he was under arrest.

But . . . there was a smile on his face.

* * *

A short time later, Monarch finished his final broadcast for the De Leon. His voice was cool, calm, and collected—not the usual state of affairs for him.

“Tobey Marshall won the De Leon,” he began. “And he was rewarded not with seven million dollars' worth of supercars, but with police bracelets. Yup. They cuffed him and stuffed him. And Dino Brewster will also be staring at a prison ceiling for many years. We just learned Dino got implicated in the racing death of Pete Coleman and also for running some sleazy Ponzi scheme. So Dino? Don't drop the soap, pretty boy. Wow—all those cars were wrecked and impounded. The police destroyed my
Mona Lisa
. Oh, Mona . . . But I can make a new Mona, and I will. De Leon lives! So until next time, my loyal subjects, keep the need. Keep the goddamn mutha-fucking need . . . for speed.”

Monarch turned off his microphone and clapped his hands once in satisfaction.

He liked being a man of mystery. He really had been an F1 driver years before. He'd run at all the hot tracks around the world and had been hugely successful. In fact, he was probably
too
good at it, because he'd actually damaged his heart from taking too many risks and having too many adrenaline rushes. Or at least that's what his doctors told him.

Since then, he'd supported at least one team in every major car race around the world, but mostly because that's what his old-money family wanted him to do.

But secretly he'd also been supporting his true love—street racing. And he would do anything to see it prosper.

That's what his show and the De Leon were all about.

He stood up now and walked out from behind his console. His friends the seagulls were cawing madly at that moment. Usually he'd shoo them away—they loved his lighthouse retreat, but while he was on the air, they could be distracting. But now, with the show over for a while, they could cry as much as they wanted.

He walked out of the studio and out onto the lighthouse's balcony. He looked out over the sparkling ocean. It was deep blue, and rolling with waves—but not really high ones. Certainly not surfers' waves. This was not the Pacific. Monarch was looking out over the Atlantic.

He leaned against the railing and drank in the warmth of the midafternoon sun.

“Ah, there's nothing like this,” he said. “Nothing like the great state of Maine.”

Twenty-Six

TOBEY'S SENTENCE TURNED
out to be a light one.

This time he took the plea bargain and settled for six months for grand theft auto.

It was not so bad. He'd been assigned to the minimum-security wing of a San Francisco area prison. There was no solitary this time. No drama. No prayers. No gang fights. Just a lot of time sitting around and talking to the other convicted auto thieves about all things cars, and all things street racing.

But he vowed that once he got out this time, he would stay out for good.

* * *

He was sitting at a table in the visitors' room, as he did every Wednesday at exactly 1:00 p.m.

The doors finally opened and Julia walked in, as she did every visitors' day, more gorgeous than ever.

And like every day when they met, he started off the conversation with three simple words: “You look beautiful.”

As always Julia melted—but today it only lasted for a moment. Then she was all business.

“I talked to Ingram,” she said. “He says you still owe him. He wants to have lunch to figure out some arrangement. I think there might be a driving assignment in it for you.”

“Well, I can do lunch in, let's see, about a hundred and fifty days,” Tobey said.

“I'll set it up,” she replied without missing a beat.

“But remember,” he told her. “First, we gotta go get Benny out of jail in Nevada. They take helicopter theft very seriously out there. He'll be getting sprung around the same time as me. We'll have to set up a rendezvous with the Beast.”

“You realize that's seven hundred and fifty miles from here,” Julia told him.

“Sounds like we're going to need a fast car,” Tobey said.

“I already got it,” she told him with a smile.

* * *

And just about 150 days later, Tobey walked out of the prison.

He was greeted at the gate by the roar of a lot of horsepower. Then a true work of art pulled up in front of him. It was a 2015 Mustang GT.

Julia rolled down the window.

“Get in,” she told him.

But Tobey just shook his head.

“No way,” he said. “I've seen you drive.”

A minute later, the Mustang growled to life again. Tobey was behind the wheel, hammering the throttle; Julia was in the passenger's seat.

He performed a great screech by aggressively turning the tires with his foot on the brake. It sounded like a symphony to him.

Then he let the brakes go and the wheels finally grabbed and they flew down the desolate road that lined the prison's perimeter, heading for the open highway beyond.