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  The track doubled back over Berkeley, and the TURBOnauts began their descents onto the knot of California freeway. “Choppers incoming,” Carson reported. “Be ready for Katana to cut in ahead of you.” Mace prepared for landing. Aya’s green-and-lavender Lotus came out of nowhere and touched down on the bridge in front of him. She had a nasty habit of pulling off that stunt! Two more dicers folded their propellers and joined the fray right behind Mace. Pterodactyl’s Ariel Pterin almost clipped him. Their sudden appearance was loud and confusing, hard landings in which they almost belly flopped, then half bounced along the freeway as they finished transforming. Mace gathered his focus, punched the gas, and felt the freeway grow steady beneath his tires. He raced along the Embarcadero marginally aware of the screaming crowds. He wasn’t able to overtake anyone, but no one got past him, either.

  The water-run around Alcatraz was disappointing. Mace’s off-the-pier entry was slow. Napoleon outmaneuvered him on the way up through San Pablo Bay. Chariot and Sonar simply outpowered Trailblazer. Mace reentered Sonoma Raceway in tenth place. The leaders pulled away from their pit stops before he ever pulled in.

  Mace was losing everything he’d gained! He’d beaten off so many racers—and now they were demanding back their rightful place. The true test of this race was dawning on him: endurance. Resolve. Ten reps of this was going to take . . . passion.

  He overshot his first pit stop and lost seconds backing into his slot so that the mechanics could replace components, tires, and refill fuel. Nearly half an hour later, at the end of the second rep, he came into the pit far too cautiously, heavy on the brakes, creeping into his stall at the cost of precious seconds.

  It happened again after the next rep. “You’re letting the world know you’re new at this,” Dex grumbled from the radio after Mace’s third botched pit stop.

  “I’m lulling them into a false sense of security,” Mace tried, wincing. “Fourth time’s a charm.”

  On finishing the fifth rep, Carson thrust a bottle of water at him in the pits. “Halfway done!”

  “Still in tenth place!” Mace complained. He guzzled the water and tossed it.

  “You’re staying close to the leaders. Keep it up.”

  The eighth rep ended with Mace claiming fourth place. But he got no love from his mustache-stroking crew chief. “Hey, watch the hard landings on the Bay Bridge, okay? You’ve got multiple reps to go, and the shocks are strained. I can’t replace those mid-race.”

  Mace’s confidence suffered with each water entry but grew steadier on the ground and air. During the ninth rep, he flirted with third place, then dropped back to eighth on the San Pablo run. “CRUD!”

  But he saw an opportunity.

  He came barreling into the pits at full speed, then stopped rapidly on the mark. “Go, go, go!” he shouted to his crew.

  “Give me ten extra miles of fuel,” he told Mr. Gerber.

  “Why?”

  “I’m going to skip the final pit stop.”

  Mr. Gerber eyed him hard, thinking. “Bad idea.”

  “She can do it. I have the option, right? Legally speaking?”

  “There’s nothing in the rules against it.”

  “Then do it.”

  The chief relayed the order.

  The crew scrambled, finished their tasks in lightning speed, and Mace floored the pedal, rocketing off the line. He missed leaping ahead of Apocalypse and was forced to fall in behind the leaders like a lowly sixth grader in the lunch line.

  Dex came into his ear. “You’re where you need to be. The real race starts now. This is a new animal. No more psychology. It’s all about you and the asphalt. Lean into it and get the job done.”

  But Mace held back. The entire rep, he took Trailblazer a little easier on the road surfaces. Dex was going insane, but he ignored his wingman’s cries. I’ve gotta believe in myself.

  Even so, his tires were wearing thin. The extra fuel was heavy. It cost him more time, but the craft held together. He eased onto the road after the final water-to-ground morph and let out his breath. “Now we see what’s what.” Well over three hours of racing were behind him. He entered the speedway for the last time.

  The Pro-Am closed with ten final ground-laps. Mace entered the track in fifteenth place. “This is going to be tough,” Dex said.

  Mace shook his head. “I’m skipping the pit.”

  “What?” Dex protested. “You’ll never take them if you’re bald and they’re running fresh! You need fuel.”

  “All fourteen leaders have stopped for fuel and new tires,” reported Mr. Gerber.

  “See?” urged Dex. “The only hope you have is outracing them with fresh equipment.”

  Mace closed his eyes coming around the first turn. He listened to Trailblazer, his entire body a seismometer needle, ready to pick up on the slightest warning tremble.

  And there it was: a wobble on the front left tire. A thinning bald patch that could definitely blow within the next ten miles of asphalt. The vehicle wanted to tug left. But Mace had put all his chips on the table with this gambit. He had no choice.

  “I have to go all in,” he said.

  Mace gunned it past the crowded pits and kept going. Just like that, he was in first place—and alone.

  The crowds! The crowds were going insane.

  It took four laps for anyone to catch him. By then, he felt his tires would last the final six. But that wobble—he had to ease off the turns a bit. It cost him. Aya blew past him. Then Talon and Taz. Then Cori ‘Coriolis’ Collins behind the wheel of Monsoon. That put him in fifth place. The wobble threatened to unravel. Mace let off the gas. Randall Horseman of Apocalypse took advantage. Now he was in sixth.

  Even without a final pit stop, he was inevitably falling behind. Dex had been right. Riding on bald tires was going to cost him more than a stop would have.

  Dex came on the mic. He sounded glum. “How does it feel?”

  “I don’t know,” Mace said. “I threw the vets for a loop. I’m in good position, better than I was after most reps.”

  “I hope you’re right. No one’s succeeded at this for years. There’s a reason, you know.”

  Yeah, Mace thought. They’re not named Renegade.

  Three laps to go, and he was holding steady in sixth position. Mace exhaled. Pretend your tires are brand-new. There was no point in holding back anymore. “Here we go.”

  He inched ahead of Apocalypse on the straightaway and secured his gain by closing off the inner lane as they entered the turn. Veteran Randall Horseman fell farther behind as Trailblazer’s superior engine outperformed him. Mace was an emotional basket case. Sixth place with three laps to go! He needed third or better to qualify for the Gauntlet Prix!

  The four leaders were so far ahead, he didn’t see how he could catch them with so little blacktop left.

  A wobble. Quivering.

  No. There’s too much at stake!

  The final lap was underway. Mace had closed the distance to the leaders, but the math looked bad. His wheels were furious. He was on Monsoon’s tail, locked in a close battle for fifth. But her pilot, Coriolis, wasn’t taking chances. He couldn’t get around her. She was everywhere.

  He knew then, beyond any doubt: crossing the finish line wasn’t enough.

  He wanted more.

  Mace and Coriolis entered the third and final curve, catching Taz Nazaryan, who was too savvy to allow anyone past him. Mace knew the standings were fixed, barring a miracle. Talon was seconds away from a surprise upset victory, Aya only a millisecond behind him, and then TazNaz and Coriolis next, with Mace locked out at fifth place.

  Aya was in second. She would be taking a dicer to the Prix!

  Another wobble. This one was furious. The thumping became constant, rhythmic.

  He could work with the unraveling tire as long as it held a beat, a pattern.

  Coriolis found an opening. She took the curve wide in a bid to outgun Pitchfork on the outside. Taz veered right to deny her a path forward—leaving t
he inside lane vulnerable to a suicide bid by Mace. He saw the mistake instantly, made a thousand calculations in his head, and went in for blood.

  Rumbling now. But predictable.

  “Come on, hold together for ten more seconds.”

  He guided Trailblazer into the narrow gap created by Taz. He won the position! But the checkered flag was close. They were on the final straightaway. His foot was to the floor, every sense in his body focused on Trailblazer’s purring—and the tortured howl of whatever was left of his front left tire.

  He thought she had it in her! Even if the tire blew now, momentum would carry him on through.

  But would he cross in third? Or fourth?

  Talon and Aya were across the finish line. But it was a three-way tie for third.

  Mace risked a glance to the side. Taz was right there. Coriolis clipped him! Taz swerved and corrected. Coriolis had to dodge him. They both fell back! Mace zeroed in on the finish, crossed the line, and shot forward with no one remotely near him.

  Mace Blazer let out a shrill cry. Like a flicker of lightning, all in an instant, he had struck, taking third place. He had won a spot in the Gauntlet Prix.

  And then his tire blew, and his view of the world turned into a chaotic smear.

  Chapter Thirty

  Mace was at the center of the world’s most expensive fidget spinner.

  There was nothing he could do to stop the whirling.

  The vehicle snagged on the road shoulder, and he flipped. He looked up—or was it down?—saw grass. He was careening into the raceway’s open center, and, thank God, not toward a wall.

  He flipped again. His seating ballooned, grabbing him tighter than ever. The violent forces tearing at his bones ceased. He looked up—yes, it was up this time. Trailblazer had come to a halt on the field, shredded wheels down. Fire trucks were approaching. He popped the spiderwebbed canopy and sprang away from the craft. He fell on shaky legs, then stood. He toppled again, and rose to his knees, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

  The crowds were beside themselves. The world was a cauldron of roaring.

  Trailblazer. Was the vehicle okay?

  Sirens wailed. Flashing yellow lights all over the stadium.

  Mace studied the damage. She was in one piece. The canopy was shattered, but that was easy to replace. A few dents. They could afford that. Nothing Mr. Hernandez couldn’t handle. Mr. H. was probably watching this from home, already taking notes.

  A strange sound filled Mace’s ears. Screaming? No. Shouting. Laughter. His crew was celebrating. “Third!” they were chanting. “Third, third, third!”

  He heard Carson cry, “And he gets the bronze! He’s in the money!”

  Mace gulped. Prize money. And he had been tallying up repair tabs in his brain like it was the end of the month and he was out of allowance! They were flush with cash!

  Firefighters helped him remain steady on his feet. He was dizzy, and stiff as C-3PO. Even without the crash, three-plus hours of racing, leaning forward and tense the entire time, had made his body angry at him. He scanned the grandstands for his parents as he stumbled to a waiting escort vehicle. He needed them to know he was okay. The megascreens were showing celebrations in three pits. One with red-and-black jumpsuits, one with green-and-lavender jerseys, and a crew dressed in—blue and orange.

  That’s my crew.

  And then he saw his parents hugging, crying, cheering. He’d done it. He’d done it the right way. He waved in their general direction. They waved back. Mace retreated below the stadium. The firefighters wanted to test him for a concussion, but he refused treatment. No one could find out his age. A medical exam could wait until later, at the ER, when he would seem like just any kid off the street. The first responders shuffled off, leaving Mace alone in the locker room. A large television fastened to the wall was showing a live broadcast of TURBOWORLD. Mace turned on the volume and placed his helmet on the bench beside him while he waited for Dex to arrive.

  They were replaying his finish over and over. It looked amazing from an outside angle! And the crash looked . . . bad. No. It looked awesome. He laughed.

  But Jax Anders landed a heavy blow to his spirits.

  The toothy face of TURBOWORLD sat at his glass anchor desk, bantering with his co-host, Lee Weisborne. “I’ve never seen a TURBOnaut all over the map like that. Botching pit stops, horrible timing on the water entries, gaining and losing in the standings.”

  “You can’t just chalk up a showing like that to pure chance,” Lee argued. “Even taking third takes some skill.”

  “That’s a glowing endorsement. I can throw a dart behind my back and hit the bull’s-eye every once in a while. That’s got nothing to do with skill. What we saw out there today was recklessness and dumb luck.”

  “It was audacious. Ambitious. Daring. Those air-laps were flawless. Skipping the last pit? That’s the stuff of legend.”

  “And it almost got Renegade killed.” Anders shrugged. “It was a decent air performance. But I’d use the word clueless. If you put a ten-year-old behind the wheel and told them to hit the gas, they’d go fast. Why? Because they don’t know to be afraid. This pilot’s like Icarus, if you ask me. Flying too close to the sun—like in the myth. It’s a matter of time before the wax melts off his wings and he plummets back to Earth.”

  Dex strode into the room. He saw what Mace was watching and turned off the monitor with a hurried voice command. He scolded Mace. “You shouldn’t watch that.”

  “A ten-year-old?” Mace complained. “What gives? I’m nearly a teenager.”

  They both laughed. “Are you okay?” Dex asked.

  “Stiff. But I’m in one piece.”

  “What a show!” Dex congratulated him. “You’re in the Prix! Come on. We better get you up on the podium. Text your parents first. They’re out of their minds.”

  Dex threw him his phone. Mace scrolled through the recent messages. There were several dozen from the last ten minutes alone. Mace assured Mom and Dad he was fine.

  Aya barged into the locker room, eggplant helmet in hand. “I knew it was you!”

  “Whoa!” Dex jumped.

  Mace gave her a salute. “I think I’m going to live. Thanks for asking!”

  Dex hugged her. “We probably shouldn’t all be seen together.”

  “I’m not staying. But . . . why are you helping him, Dex?” Aya pushed away the hug. She had helmet hair, and she combed her fingers absently through it. “He’s a cheater. And he’s dangerous even when he’s not cheating.”

  “Skipping the pit wasn’t illegal!” Mace said.

  “No,” she reluctantly agreed. “But it was dangerous. Someone really could have been hurt.”

  She marched off down the underground hallway.

  “Aya! Wait!” Mace yelled after her. “You’re in more trouble than you realize!”

  “As long as you’re around, that’s true!” she shouted back. She shoved on her helmet and continued up the ramp to the outside world.

  The boys watched her go. Mace put on his helmet and they headed aboveground, too. Dex helped him through the crowd. Mace was blinded by the glint of waiting cameras. The mob parted a little. He looked around to discover he was standing on the lowest level of a three-step platform. Talon stood tall on the highest level beside him, and Aya, hidden behind her visor, waved to the crowds from her second-place perch.

  Someone had shaken a bottle of sparkling wine and sprayed it on the victors. Mace wiped the foam away from his mask. Dex spoke into his earpiece. “Straighten up. Wave.”

  Talon gave the cryptic pilots flanking him each a shoulder squeeze. “Both very impressive out there,” he told them. “Why don’t you guys take the limelight? No one wants to hear from me today. I’m old news.”

  He stepped off the podium and dissolved into the crowd.

  Aya and Mace now stood side by side. Renegade held out his hand. Katana thought about it, then reached over and accepted the handshake. The crowds loved it, and camera shutters made a soun
d like a vat of popcorn kernels exploding all at once.

  Mace was glad for his flight suit, mask, and gloves.

  The purple-tinted surface of Katana’s visor studied Mace. They were still shaking hands. “This is for the cameras, slimeball.”

  Mace ignored her, hurrying, sensing an opportunity to warn her. “Tempest is crazy, Aya. She’s up to something bad. I know it.”

  “I know the danger,” she admitted. “But I have a real shot at the Glove, Mace. I can’t walk away now.”

  “Don’t trust her or Henryk.”

  “I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. You’re just as bad as they are. I can take care of myself.”

  I’m not like them, Mace wanted to say. But he knew his words meant nothing, not until he could back them up by stopping Tempest by the book.

  Aya pulled away and squared her shoulders with the crowd.

  They faced a pack of cameras and outstretched phones. A microphone on a boom stick whacked Mace’s helmet. Reporters materialized from everywhere all shouting questions all at once.

  “Renegade, what were you thinking when you punched through TazNaz’s wall?”

  “Skipping the pit stop—was that your plan all along?”

  “When are you going to take your helmets off for us?”

  “Are you the mysterious pilot of trimorpher Eighty-Three, from the Philippines?”

  Mace finally leaned in on the mics. He spoke with utter resolve. “No. I’m not.”

  “Katana, you placed in a Prix Qualifier using a dicer. How are you feeling?”

  “You’re the fifteenth and sixteenth TURBOnauts to qualify for a shot at this year’s Glove. The first amateurs ever to do so. Six of your rivals have won before. Are you ready for the demands of your first Gauntlet?”

  Aya stepped forward, ready to answer, but hands seized her shoulders from behind. Tempest, wearing a tailored purple-and-green flight jacket and her larger-than-life sunglasses, placed herself between Aya and the cameras. “My dicer pilot is not taking questions at this time. See you all in Mexico City in two weeks.”