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She didn’t even turn her head. She was watching the warm-ups like a hawk, scoping out the competition. Monster trucks were swerving, bouncing, and roaring all over the dirt-covered surface. “We’re a long shot, for sure,” she shouted back. “But I like being underestimated.”

Poe turned to look at his trusty Hummer. He hardly recognized it. As it turned out, the head mechanic at the Varna shop Virginia had recommended was a dog lover like her. She and Baskerville had charmed the guy into working almost forty-eight hours straight on the modifications. The overtime was charged to Poe. He gladly paid it. He now owned the muscle car of all muscle cars.

The upgraded Hummer had a military-grade differential, nitrogen-charged coil-over shocks, an integrated roll cage, a fire-suppression system, and—even more impressive—a radically jacked-up cab, custom axles, and four sixty-six-inch seven-hundred-pound tires. The massive black vehicle was still the smallest in the arena, as Poe had predicted. It didn’t have the horsepower or the torque of the purpose-built machines out on the track, but Virginia promised him that it was raceworthy, and he trusted her judgment. After all, she was the one who’d be driving.

They’d already made the decision to sit out the preliminary events. To Virginia, the stunts were a waste of time. County fair stuff. She knew the Hummer couldn’t beat the others in acrobatics, and she didn’t want to risk burning out the transmission or bending the frame. She was saving the vehicle—and herself—for the main event.

The speakers mounted to the steel rafters crackled to life and the stadium announcer went into his high-octane spiel. “Ladies and Gentlemen! The wait is over! It’s time for the always inviting, always exciting—Cayuga 600! In case you’re counting, folks, that’s four times around the arena track, ramps and obstacles included! No holds barred. No pit stops allowed!” The bleachers shook as the spectators roared and stomped. “At this time, all drivers and vehicles please report to the starting line!”

Virginia was wearing an iridescent silver one-piece driving suit and leather gloves. She picked her helmet off the ground and jammed it over her head. She’d borrowed the whole outfit from a driver at the Varna garage. The fit wasn’t perfect—a little loose in the caboose—but with any luck, it would keep her from catching fire.

Poe jumped up onto the running board and pulled the driver-side door open. The bars of the new roll cage were bolted to the frame. The factory shift lever had been replaced by a heavy-duty model. The standard lap belt had been augmented by a rugged safety harness. Virginia slid past him, plopped herself down in the seat, and strapped herself in. Poe could see the other competitors—five of them—edging into position behind a spray-painted white line.

He tapped Virginia’s shoulder to get her attention, then leaned in toward the ear hole in her helmet. “Listen to me,” he said. “Don’t go crazy. Don’t get careless. And don’t get hurt!”

Virginia turned the key in the ignition. The Hummer roared to life. “You forgot the most important thing,” she shouted, revving the engine. “Don’t get beat!”

CHAPTER 94

VIRGINIA PULLED UP to the starting line and wedged the Hummer between two monsters at the near end. The truck to her right was decked out in goth colors—green and black. The truck to the left was ocean blue, with a rakish fiberglass shark fin on the roof. The three other trucks sat farther down the row. One neon orange. One purple. One bloodred.

As soon as Virginia pulled into place, the goth truck started roaring and belching blue smoke. She looked over to see the driver staring back at her with a shit-eating grin. She recognized him right away. It was one of the grease monkeys who had hassled her in the general-store parking lot and chased her out of the arena the day she came spying. She looked to the left. She recognized that driver too. Part of the same posse. “Hey, Hot Wheels!” he shouted, performing an obscene pantomime with his index finger and opposing fist.

Okay, thought Virginia, this is the mentality I’m dealing with. Let’s see if these dudes can drive.

She adjusted her helmet and fixed her eyes on a raised platform halfway down the track. A thickset guy in coveralls was holding a furled green flag on a short stick.

Virginia shifted into neutral and feathered the gas pedal. The Hummer’s engine rumbled. She kept her foot on the brake and shifted into first. The flagman leaned over the track, raised the flag over his head, then whipped it down.

The goth machine jumped off the line first, nearly swiping Virginia’s front tire. She swerved to the side and almost took out the shark. On the far side, the neon-orange truck sped into the lead, its huge treads spraying clumps of damp earth onto the other vehicles.

Virginia hammered the accelerator and slipped through the gap between the goth and the shark, tires banging as she passed. She hugged the orange truck’s bumper as it sped down the straightaway toward the first obstacle—an imposing ten-foot dirt ramp. The driver took the jump at full speed, pulling about fifteen feet of air before bouncing down on the other side. The crowd went crazy.

Virginia hit the ramp two seconds later. Flying through the air, she felt the back end come up. She landed so hard on her front tires that she almost flipped tail over top.

By the time her rear tires got a grip, the goth and the shark flew past her. She checked her rearview. The red truck had botched the ramp approach and tipped onto its side, skidding all the way to the bleachers. The purple truck was scrambling for position from the rear. By the first turn, there were only four real contenders: the goth, the shark, the neon orange, and the Hummer. They looped in close quarters around the turn at the far end of the arena.

The goth and the shark slid together to block Virginia on the return straightaway. The orange truck was bumping her from the left. She fought to keep her tires straight as the water obstacle came up—a six-foot trough across the middle of the raceway. The two lead trucks hit it at the same time, splashing muddy water behind them. The orange truck got a thick chunk of mud on its windshield and spun off to the right, crashing through hay bales lining the side of the track and scattering spectators in all directions.

Virginia powered through the trough so fast her tires barely touched bottom. She set up her line through the curve and cranked the wheel. One lap down. Three to go. Now it was a matter of speed and position. And staying in one piece.

She tracked the jump better the second time around, came off flat, and got solid traction on the landing. The goth truck was in the lead now, with the shark right behind. They both had a lot more raw power than she did, and more hours on the course. She couldn’t afford any mistakes.

Lap three. This time, the shark swerved going into the water obstacle and hit it broadside. While the driver tried to dig out, the wheels spun in the muck. Virginia cranked her wheel and dodged around him, banging into his front treads as she went. She took the turn at the end of the arena at nearly full speed and pulled up to the goth’s fender. The flagman signaled the last lap. In her periphery, Virginia could see that four of the other monsters were out of the race. Shark was stuck. Red was flipped. Orange was stalled. Purple was still on his third lap. No chance.

Virginia was so close to the goth on the final jump that they were both in the air at the same time. When he swerved a touch off center on the landing, Virginia shot past him for the first time.

She had a clear track heading for the final curve. She could feel the Hummer’s engine straining. She glanced at the temp gauge and saw the needle pinned in the red. She was either leaking coolant or pushing the engine way past its limits. She felt a jolt from behind. The goth was ramming her! Like the announcer said, no holds barred. He backed off, then sped up and hit her again, tire to tire. She felt the loss of traction on the right side. She started to fishtail. She saw the goth starting to pass on the right. They hit the water hazard neck and neck. When they bounced out the other side, the goth was ahead by a truck length.

Final straightaway! Virginia glanced up and saw Poe jump onto the bleachers for a better view of the finish. This was his machine. No way was she going to let him down. She had no premonitions now, just a vivid sense memory. For a second, she was a sixteen-year-old in a souped-up Mustang, putting all the boys on a Pennsylvania back road to shame.

She kept the accelerator pedal down and power shifted. The rpm shot into the red. Sheets of steam were blowing out from under her hood. She didn’t try to pass the goth. She slid in behind him, then moved in tight. She goosed his left rear tire. Just a little love tap. It was enough. His nose went right. He tried to correct. He rocked to the left, then spun out violently, flames bursting from his engine. Virginia gripped the wheel tight and shot straight ahead—right under the waving checkered flag.

She skidded to a stop just over the finish line and turned off the ignition. She pulled off her helmet and tossed it onto the seat. She opened the door and stepped onto the running board, then hopped down onto the dirt, shrouded by a cloud of steam from under the Hummer’s hood.

The crowd was cheering and holding up their phone cams. Race officials were hurrying over. The skinny Pisces from the general store was carrying a big gold trophy and a magnum of champagne.

Poe got to Virginia first. He had a desperate look on his face.