Page 29 of Forsaken Oath

It’s the fourth and final heat tonight. We have a twenty-five car cap on the oval. Any more than that, and we’re just asking for accidents and the kind of damage that’s permanent.

We’ve got three people watching the clock and documenting finish times. I have extra security with each of them, just as a precaution in case shit goes south when they announce the top twelve. There are no rules when it comes to the Gauntlet, but it’s only the first pre-qualifier race, and so far, everyone’s been playing clean.

The last twenty-five cars whip by, blurry streaks of color. It’s hard to keep track of which car is in the lead.

Jess, this wizard of a woman, developed a system that allows her to place a small tracker on every driver’s car, so we can record the exact time they crossed the finish line. The coalition actually paid her to replicate it for the Gauntlet. It’s connected to MoonLink, a satellite internet service, so it never encounters a dead zone and always has impeccable service.

Jess creates these profiles for everyone, purely based on the car and a basic description of the driver. So after the second pre-qualifier in Clearwater in two days, she’ll send a mass text from an untraceable number to the twenty-five fastest drivers. It’llseem like a spam text, reminding them to register to vote now in preparation for the upcoming election. It’s all code.

If they get the text, they move on to the Gauntlet. If they don’t, they’re out.

In two keystrokes, her program will send an automated text twenty-four hours before the first race. Another spammy text, signing up for a rewards program with a link. The link opens up to coordinates with a specific time. That’s how we convey information safely. And this part is more important than racing.

At the Alley, we’re in control. I’ve got enough cops in my pocket that it’d have to take serious shit to close this place down permanently. But the Gauntlet is anything but controlled. That’s half the battle. Anything goes during the Gauntlet.

I’m pulled back to the track as the final lap approaches, the last burst of adrenaline before the checkered flag. And then it happens—a little black sports car, sleek and quick, comes up from behind and rockets past three others, cutting through the pack like it’s nothing. Right before the finish line, the car slides into first place with just inches to spare.

The crowd erupts. Screaming, yelling, cheering. But there’s a voice that cuts above them all.

“Hell yeah! That’s my fucking sister!” It’s the same girl Hawke was hitting on earlier. Head tipped toward the sky and hands cupped around her mouth as she screams.

A guy steps in next to her, clapping and hollering with her. I vaguely recognize him, but it’s hard to get a good look through the throng of people jumping around.

The girl plants a hand on top of the half-wall fence, and without looking at the guy next to her, she vaults herself right over, landing on the sidelines with barely a stumble.

I find myself leaning forward, arms braced on the railing, drawn to the scene in front of me.

“Who’s driving the Mitsubishi?” I toss over my shoulder to Graham.

He barely glances up, tapping his encrypted tablet. I’m sure he’s scrolling through the dossiers we keep on every driver. The only person besides Jess who’s more brilliant with tech is my brother. He insists on keeping his own files, separate from the Gauntlet’s. It’s helpful for stats, odds, and payouts, so it never really bothered me.

“Lou Thorne. Never heard of him before.”

I nod, letting my gaze drift back to the girl who’s sprinting across the dirt, not wasting a second as she beelines straight for the black car idling in the middle of the track. She reaches the driver’s side, rips the door open, and pulls the driver out. In a flash of dark blonde, they’re in a tangled hug, jumping up and down.

I’m halfway over the railing now, completely focused on them, everything else fading into the background. Something about it holds me immobile, and I can’t look away.

And then she pulls back, and the driver’s face is right there under the bright lights, clear as day. My lungs seize up, breath stalling as I take in the one face I’ve been seeing in my mind since the drive-in.

Standing in the middle of the Alley, with the crowd roaring around her and victory in her eyes, is Peach.

My Eloise.

14

ELOISE

The scentof grilled meat and lime hangs in the air, blending with the warm, earthy smell of summer nights. Nate’s backyard is quiet except for our laughter and the occasional clink of tequila glasses against cheap ceramic plates. The glow from the string of lights he hung from his porch throws warm circles of light over our taco spread, illuminating Margot’s triumphant grin as she hoists her glass.

“To Louie, the best goddamn driver this town’s ever seen!” she declares, eyes glinting with pride.

“Hey, what about me? The guy who taught her everything she knows,” Nate teases, tossing his arm over my shoulders.

“Nah, her dad did all that,” Margot says, her grin softening into something bittersweet.

Nate slides his arm off my shoulders, reaching for his glass. He raises it, a teasing smile on his lips. “To Thorne and her dad!”

Margot echoes the cheer, and the three of us clink glasses. Warmth blooms in my chest, a mix of pride and nostalgia. Winning the heat felt incredible, but it’s seeing Margot’s look of pride that makes me think, maybe, just maybe, I can do this. I just might have a chance in the Gauntlet.

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