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  “She won’t let me pass, Dex! She’s tougher than I thought!”

  “You’re Renegade. You’re tougher than she thinks. You can do this!”

  They passed a landing checkpoint, where they would have touched down as roadsters for the final approach had the weather been different. Mace gritted his teeth. Overtaking Tempest with a daring air leap was out of the question now. Rules stipulated that they remain roadsters with wheels on the ground from here until the finish.

  They blew through ramshackle towns. Die-hard fans braved the storm to watch them hydroplane through the villages. And then the countryside disappeared, replaced with a constant blur of high-rise buildings and packed crowds. They were entering the outskirts of Havana. The whole of Cuba, it seemed, was on hand to witness the epic chase. They might have been drenched to the bone, but they were still fired up.

  Mace loved it.

  Whatever his future held—no matter how much trouble Tempest was going to cause him—Mace owed these fans an honest victory.

  He made his move, hammering the pedal to the floor.

  Tempest veered, blocking his path.

  “Shoot!” What’s it gonna take to squeeze by her?!

  They blazed past crumbling baseball stadiums, tall statues, high-rise apartment complexes, and hotels. The billboards, large and rattled by storm winds, displayed solid colors, bearded figures in green berets, and simple Spanish phrases:

  Esta revolución es hija de la cultura.

  Son las ideas las que iluminan al mundo.

  Crowds lined every sidewalk, cheering loudly enough for him to hear.

  The boulevard narrowed, boxed on the sides with stone offices and bleachers. Too narrow! If passing had been beyond difficult earlier—it seemed impossible now.

  They pressed on. Trailblazer gave a jerk and a stutter. Mace looked at his fuel gauge. It was bottomed out. He couldn’t believe it: he was on fumes!

  Continuum II screamed over the asphalt, never slowing, plowing through standing pools and spraying up walls of water. She’d lose control, compensate with her drift fins, find the line. Mace chased her down, risking a burst of speed, and hydroplaned right into the back of her.

  He flipped to her comm channel. “Oh, hi. There you are,” he said.

  “Back off!” she snarled in his ears.

  Mace did back off, but just a hair. A half mile ahead, the tattered checkered banner whipped ferociously in the torrential winds. A gust threatened to pick Continuum II off the ground. Tempest used a drift fin again to stabilize.

  Mace wondered: had she left the ground right then? Would she be disqualified for that? That won’t do, he thought. “I have to win by winning, not through a technicality.”

  A crazy vision entered his head. He drew in a deep breath.

  He knew what to do.

  Rules stipulate that you need at least two wheels on the ground during any ground terrain.

  Maintaining a steady grip with one hand, Mace gauged the howling winds. He cut to the left. Quasar answered by blocking him. He swerved to the right, and so did she. His free hand typed commands into the forward display, and he punched morph-to-air.

  But only his right wing extended.

  He gave Trailblazer a mad burst of speed. The Pegasus engine revved to 100 percent. The vehicle turned on its side, the extended wing rising over the top of Continuum II’s canopy. His own canopy remained inches from grazing the safety fencing facing the bleachers. There was a backfire.

  Out of gas.

  Nothing to do now but coast. He cut through the fierce winds like a dart, half aircraft, half roadster, his two left wheels always against asphalt.

  Tempest wavered, struggling to control her roadster. Her stabilizing fins came up again. Mistake. The drag slowed her down. Not much. But just enough.

  Mace overtook her. Without a fraction of a second to spare, he retracted his wing, and slammed down on all fours in front of her. He slowed. But it was too late for Quasar to retake him.

  He whipped across the finish line.

  Crowd roar rose to a howl, drowning out the winds.

  Mace drew in a starved breath.

  He’d taken the checkered flag.

  The Glove was his.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Mace hit the brakes.

  Tempest barreled into him from behind. His smart cushioning absorbed the forces as they came to a halt, hydroplaning and bouncing off the boulevard fencing like bowling balls on a bumpered lane.

  “You cheated!” Tempest said, sneering over the comm.

  “I never cheated,” he replied. “I always had at least two wheels on the ground. Rules don’t specify which two wheels they need to be. Look it up.”

  “You look it up. I’ll send you a rulebook in prison, after I explain to the cops that you stole Event Horizon from the Boulder Airport.”

  Mace felt a sudden stab of fear. Continuum II rested off-kilter beside him. He studied Tempest’s hull for damage as Tempest stirred within. She lifted the visor of her golden helmet, peering out of her canopy at him through the downpour with nothing but blind rage.

  Sirens wailed from somewhere beyond the street’s canyon walls, growing nearer.

  “Some parting advice for you,” Tempest offered across their dedicated comm. “Keep your mouth shut. Anything you say will only come back to haunt you.”

  Anything you say . . .

  The pounding of his heart in his ears fell suddenly silent.

  Mace laughed his relief. “I can prove you’re behind all this!”

  “Prove what?” she ruthlessly continued. “That I hired you and the others to win for me? That the payouts you all received came from my accounts? You don’t think I covered my tracks? You’re going to claim that I swapped places with Henryk? Even if he survives, I’ll just say he tried to replace me. He’ll never be able to prove that I didn’t pilot Continuum all along. It’s your word against mine. Trust me, I’ve covered it all.”

  “Keep talking,” Mace replied. “You’re just making this easier.” He patted his dash so that she could see what he was referring to.

  Tempest glowered at him across the distance. “No,” she said.

  “It’s all here. Every word you’ve spoken since zapping Henryk. All comms are recorded. For training purposes. Right? I believe Ahmed taught me that.”

  A pair of Cuban police cruisers came into view from around the corner. Mace could hear above the roar of the storm a message reaching out to them by bullhorn: “Remain securely in your cockpits. We’ll retrieve you one by one and get you both to safety. We’ll start with the closest of you—the winner.”

  Mace laughed. “That would be me, wouldn’t it?”

  “Damn you, Mace Blazer,” Tempest seethed. “I gave you everything. I was so good to you. Don’t you see—”

  She stopped. The officers were approaching, now, holding their arms out against the gale forces. Mace encouraged her on. “Keep talking, keep talking,” he told her.

  She shook her head. There was a long pause. They studied each other across the empty, rain-swept avenue. Behind Tempest, a bleacher succumbed to the wind, tearing away from its mooring and sliding onto the road. The spectators cried out in alarm. Trailblazer and Continuum II were rocked by the same gust. The officers might have blown away if they hadn’t been crouched low to the ground.

  The audiences sitting in all the bleachers up and down the boulevard got the message: it was time to scram. The storm was getting stronger. They filed away in a hurry.

  “I’m grateful you gave me the chance to race. I love this sport,” Mace said. “I know I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

  Untouchable and Pitchfork turned a distant corner and were now visible gunning it up the long boulevard, jostling for third place.

  “I’m not going to jail, Mace. I can afford to choose my fate. I told you about the cost of doing business once. Now you know what it buys.”

  “But the things you win—how can they matter, if you can never stand
to lose?”

  “You could have been great, Mace,” she told him. “We could have done this year after year. Traveling the globe. Rich. And now here you are. You’ll never be allowed to race again. You’re an underage nobody.”

  “Actually, I’m the world’s youngest Gauntlet Prix winner.”

  Tempest revved her engine, startling the police officers, who were still hunkered down on their approach, their uniform ponchos billowing madly. “I’ll see you around, Renegade. Or maybe I won’t.” Mace watched helplessly as Tempest reversed and executed a tight one-eighty.

  Incredibly, even wrecked, Continuum II launched to air and rose up over the cityscape. The screaming winds took hold of her.

  “No!” Mace hollered, terrified.

  Tempest disappeared in the grim, gray haze of violent sky above.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The awards ceremony was delayed overnight until the storm had moved on. Cleanup was only just beginning. The Gerbers were en route from Mexico, but Mace’s parents remained stuck in Florida.

  Mace sat quietly beside Dex, against the outside wall of the Habana Paradiso Hotel. Dex twirled his cowboy hat like a hoop as they people-watched. Reporters were everywhere, tracking down leads in a massive story they were only just beginning to comprehend.

  The aftermath of the hypercane was prominent. Large palm fronds and tree branches blocked streets and sidewalks. One old oak had uprooted entirely, smashing parked muscle cars along the path of its fall. Lawns were flooded. Trash had blown about and snagged on hedgerows and statues. The cobbled streets and footpaths were caked in mud, and power lines were down.

  But the town square was brilliantly decorated. Pennants hung from crisscrossing strings, sporting Trailblazer’s colors and logo. Maroon-and-gold TazNaz memorabilia, along with Untouchable’s colors of orange, white, and green, were also strung around the plaza. TURBO Association banners were on display everywhere the news cameras might turn. The brilliant blue sky held few clouds, and the sun cast a pleasant warmth over the impatient crowds. Technicians had just finished constructing the dais where the Glove would be presented. Reporters and fans were already gathering around the stage.

  Cutting through it all, a beautiful red carpet. At one end was the stage and the tri-level podiums upon which the first three finishers would take their bows. At the other end, a heavily guarded table—Mace thought of it as an altar—hosting this year’s Golden Gauntlet. It was already etched with the name Renegade. Mace kept his distance, waiting for the moment when it would come to him.

  Yesterday, Mace had stayed hidden beneath his helmet until he had found privacy in his hotel suite.

  When he went outside, no one ever suspected he might be Renegade.

  “I’m right here,” Mace presently offered under his breath as one reporter hurried by, yelling on her phone that she had no leads as to Renegade’s whereabouts.

  “Hey, Dex,” Mace asked. “I saw lots of billboards as I was coming into the city. One of them said, ‘Esta revolución es la hija de la cultura.’ You know what that means?”

  “Sure.” Dex thought for a moment. “It probably best translates to, ‘Revolution is in our blood.’”

  “Ah,” Mace said.

  And then from around a corner, Aya strode over. She sat down beside them against the hotel wall. She was dressed in plain clothes just like the boys.

  “Congrats,” she simply said.

  “That Glove over there belongs to all three of us,” he told her.

  “Okay,” Aya said. “I get custody on Tuesdays. And Leap Days.”

  Dex laughed.

  Mace raised an eyebrow. “So, um, are we talking to each other again?”

  She allowed her eyes to open up a bit for him. The warmth he saw there made him feel dizzy.

  “The way I grew up,” she explained, “my parents never paid attention to me. I tried everything to get them to notice—I was perfect at soccer, school, even chadō, the art of preparing and presenting Japanese tea. Same with the TURBO sim. I thought if I was the best at something they’d care a little.”

  “Okay,” said Mace, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “Explains a lot, I guess.”

  “You taught me a lesson yesterday.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “I never raced for the joy of it. If you race only to be perfect, only to get someone else to notice, you never learn how to love the sport. But you, Mace—you love this sport.”

  “I almost killed you!” he stammered.

  “Yeah, but even that was about passion. It was misguided, but I get that you were being fooled. We all were.”

  A short silence followed. Mace hated silences, and this was one for the record books. He started to squirm. Aya took his hand in hers and gave it a squeeze.

  Mace looked down at their interlaced fingers, shocked. He caught her stare, the warmth in her eyes, and then pulled away like a reflex and regretted it almost instantly.

  “How’s your family?” Aya asked Dex. “They okay in the D.R.?”

  Dex’s smile vanished. “I’m not sure,” he answered. “Haven’t been able to get through to anyone. I talked to my sister in New York. She seems to think everyone’s safe. Judging by the damage down here, it’ll probably be a few days before we really know.”

  “You can pop over there in Trailblazer,” Mace joked. “Check on them yourself.”

  “Yeah,” Dex quipped back. “Let’s just pool our money together, again, and hammer everything into shape and fill ’er up with rocket fuel and take a day trip to the Dominican Republic.”

  Mace’s smile weakened. Dex was reminding him that they were both totally out of money. It was true: there would be no more TURBO racing.

  “I will pay you back,” Mace told Dex. “Every cent you loaned me so we could do this.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” said Dex. “I got every penny’s worth out of our venture. You don’t owe me anything.”

  Mace chuckled dryly. “I don’t even have enough money to get out of Cuba.”

  “Let’s just stay here,” Dex suggested. “We can start a lounge act.”

  “Hold on,” Aya said. “You won the Prix! There’s HUGE cash in that!”

  Mace cleared his throat. “Not when I reveal myself, and the world discovers I’m only twelve.”

  Aya’s eyes bugged out of their sockets. She sprang to her feet. “Why would you do that?”

  He sighed. “I have to, Aya. I’m underage. Winning illegally isn’t winning at all.”

  “But you came out on top!” Aya argued. “Without cheating. You can’t help your age. Own your win, dude.”

  “I don’t know,” Mace said. “I figure I’m just getting started. I’ll enter the junior circuit. Work my way into the sport the way all other pro TURBOnauts do.”

  They sat in silence, watching reporters and agents and event coordinators frantically running up and down the cobbled streets shaded by unhappy-looking trees. Aya was deep in thought, troubled.

  “I’ll get you guys home,” Aya offered.

  “I wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean to ask . . .”

  She stopped Mace. “I know. Forget about it, though. What? I’m going to let you guys stay stranded here?”

  “What about you?” Mace asked. “What’s next?”

  Aya grew serious. “I’m going to keep racing,” she said. “You’ve got your Glove. I still want a shot at it.”

  “That’s fair. If I reveal myself, I’ll leave you out of it.”

  “Mace, we’re better than the junior circuit.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Maybe I can convince my parents to sponsor two or three cryptics.”

  Another reporter stormed past, speaking into a headset. “The police are reporting two versions of Continuum! Yeah, a look-alike! No. No. It hasn’t turned up. Probably some crazy cosplayer superfan for all we’ll ever know. Nope. Just some hired pit-crew types, and they don’t know squat. The chief mechanic was in Mexico City. On his way, yeah, but he’s not going to know much. I hear
he was fired before launch. Of course. I will!”

  The one-sided conversation drifted out of earshot. The reporter absently stepped in a deep pothole filled with brown water and cursed.

  “You going to put them out of their misery?” Aya asked Mace. “The authorities should know what Tempest was up to.”

  Mace cleared his throat. “She’s still out there.”

  Tempest. Her advice rang in his ears. . . .

  Keep your mouth shut. Anything you say will only come back to haunt you.

  He thumbed the memory chip in his pocket. His get-out-of-jail-free card. But he wouldn’t dare hand it over, not yet. Not without knowing her next move. She could still cause Mace and his family serious trouble if she wanted to. The flight recorder was his only protection. The only way he could be sure she’d leave him alone.

  He had crossed the finish line first. But their battle had ended in a draw.

  Not a bad chess game, really, for a pawn taking on a queen.

  “If I reveal myself, the press is sure to uncover some of Tempest’s plot on their own. As long as I’m masked, justice won’t come. Not fully.”

  “As long as you’re masked,” Aya argued, “you’re safe. You’re in control of what happens next. Come on. We can race for a few more years under our helmets, then reveal the truth after. I’m going to want a rematch, you know.”

  Mace nodded, listening. She was making a tempting point.

  Someone stopped in front of them on the sidewalk, staring down at them.

  Mace looked up. It was Henryk.

  Hands in his jean pockets, his red hair purposefully messy, he leaned against a tree trunk. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi,” Mace and Aya and Dex said back.

  “Congrats on the win, Renegade. You earned it.”

  “Thanks,” Mace replied dryly. He couldn’t tell if Henryk was being authentic or spiteful.

  Henryk cleared his throat. “Do you guys accept apologies for what they’re worth—or does there have to be some kind of chicken dance first? Either way, let me know. I’ll do it.”

  Mace raised an eyebrow. That sounded pretty genuine.

  “Chicken dance! Yes.” Dex nodded enthusiastically. “You may begin.”