Chapter 8

The air in the Brooklyn industrial park was thick with the smell of burning rubber, high-octane gasoline, and cheap beer. Bass-heavy music thumped from a cluster of modified cars, vibrating the ground beneath Clementine's boots.

She parked her Ducati in a dark corner and unzipped her jacket. Underneath, she was wearing a sleek, black racing suit. She pulled on her helmet, a full-face model with a dark visor that completely obscured her features.

Here, she wasn't Clementine Bray, the discarded wife. She wasn't C., the mysterious designer. She was the Ghost.

She walked toward the starting line, her movements fluid and confident. The crowd parted for her. They knew the bike. They knew the suit. A low murmur followed her, a mix of reverence and anticipation.

A mountain of a man with a shaved head and a thick gold chain stepped out of the crowd. Rico, the organizer.

"Ghost!" he bellowed, a grin splitting his face. "We thought you'd retired."

"Just needed a break," she said. Her voice, filtered through the helmet's modulator, came out low, androgynous, and completely unrecognizable. "What's the pot tonight?"

"Half a million," Rico said, his eyes gleaming. "Winner takes all. You in?"

Clementine nodded once and walked toward her car. It was a Nissan GT-R, heavily modified. The engine was a beast, tuned to over eight hundred horsepower. The paint was a flat, stealth black that seemed to swallow the light.

The cars lined up at the starting line. The GT-R was next to a flashy orange Chevrolet Camaro, its engine roaring and spitting flames.

A woman in leather shorts and a bikini top walked to the center of the road, holding two flags. She raised them high, the engines screamed in anticipation, and then the flags dropped.

The two cars launched off the line like bullets from a gun. The Camaro had more raw power, its massive engine screaming as it pulled ahead on the straightaway.

But then they hit the first corner. A tight, ninety-degree turn into a narrow street.

The Camaro driver, Nitro Nick, braked hard, the car fishtailing wildly as he struggled to keep it on the road.

The GT-R didn't slow down. Clementine feathered the brake, flicked the wheel, and threw the car into a perfect, controlled drift. The back end of the car slid out, the tires howling in protest, but the car itself was glued to the apex of the corner. She exited the turn inches from the wall, her speed barely diminished. The crowd, watching on makeshift screens linked to drones, roared their approval.

The race continued through the winding streets of the industrial park. Clementine was in her element. The noise, the speed, the adrenaline-it was all a cleansing fire, burning away the last two years of her life. The deep ache in her ribs was a dull metronome counting out her new freedom, a pain she could control, a pain that reminded her she was alive.

They approached the final turn. A hairpin bend that had claimed more than one car. Nitro Nick, desperate, tried to cut the inside. He didn't see the Ghost's move.

Clementine feinted left. Nick bit, jerking his wheel to block. In that split second, Clementine threw the car right. The GT-R kissed the outside wall, a shower of sparks from metal on concrete, and then she was past him, sliding into the lead and blocking his path.

Clementine crossed the finish line a full two seconds ahead of the Camaro. She brought the car to a smooth stop and killed the engine.

The silence was deafening.

She opened the door and stepped out. The crowd surged forward, chanting her name. "Ghost! Ghost! Ghost!"

She reached up and unclasped her helmet.

She pulled it off. A cascade of long, blonde hair tumbled out, catching the harsh glare of the streetlights. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright with the thrill of victory.

She took a deep breath of the cool night air.

Rico pushed through the crowd, holding a thick envelope of cash. He handed it to her with a respectful nod.

"You're a legend, Ghost. Always," he said.

Clementine didn't linger. She shoved the envelope into her jacket, pulled her helmet back on, and walked quickly toward her Ducati.

The motorcycle roared to life. She kicked it into gear and shot out of the lot, a shadow disappearing into the night, leaving behind nothing but the smell of victory and the echo of her name.