Nyra knew three things about illegal races in Los Angeles.

One: the cars were never the most dangerous thing there.

Two: men with money liked pretending speed made them brave.

Three: if someone invited you to race for "information," they were either lying, armed, or both.

Usually both.

She went anyway.

The race meet had taken over a dead stretch of industrial road near the river, where warehouses sat dark behind chain-link fences and graffiti climbed the concrete walls like warning signs nobody bothered reading. Headlights cut through tire smoke. Engines snarled. Music thumped from open trunks while girls in tiny dresses laughed beside men with guns under designer jackets.

Nyra rolled in behind the wheel of her old black Mustang, one hand loose on the steering wheel, the other tapping against the gearshift.

Her curls were tied back with a red bandana. Lip split healing. Knuckles still bruised from the bank-robber incident two days ago.

She should have been at the garage.

She should have been sleeping.

She should have been doing literally anything except trusting a burner text from a man named Razor who claimed he knew something about Hollow Sun.

But the message had included one line she couldn't ignore.

Your brother ran a route for them. Race tonight if you want the name.

So here she was.

Making life choices. Again.

A man leaned into her open window before she even parked. Shaved head. Gold tooth. Neck tattoo curling up toward his jaw.

"Patchwork Queen," he said. "Thought you stopped racing."

Nyra smiled without warmth. "I did. Then people got boring."

His gaze slid over the Mustang. "You brought that antique?"

"She's sensitive. Apologize."

He laughed and stepped back as she killed the engine.

The crowd shifted when she climbed out. Not fear, exactly. Recognition. Nyra had spent years in these circles fixing blown engines, patching bullet holes in door panels, and winning races she had no business surviving.

People remembered.

People also remembered that trouble followed her like unpaid debt.

She crossed the asphalt toward the line of racers gathered near a silver Dodge Challenger with tinted windows and black racing stripes. Razor stood beside it, wearing a leather jacket too expensive for a man who claimed he was always broke.

He had the kind of smile that made Nyra want to check her pockets.

"Nyra Quinn," he said. "Still alive."

"Disappointing a lot of people, yeah."

Razor's eyes dropped to her bruised knuckles. "Heard you put a guy in the hospital."

"He was rude to a grandma."

A few men laughed.

Razor didn't.

Good.

Nyra preferred men less comfortable.

She stopped in front of him. "You said you had a name."

"I said race first."

"I'm not here for your ego."

"No," Razor said softly. "You're here because your brother disappeared and you're desperate enough to drive into a trap."

The world sharpened.

Music dimmed behind the sudden rush in her ears.

Nyra kept her smile in place by force.

"Careful," she said. "That almost sounded like intelligence."

Razor leaned closer. "Milo Quinn owed the wrong people."

Her fingers twitched.

Not toward a weapon.

Toward his throat.

She tucked her hands into her jacket pockets instead.

"Say his name again like you knew him," she said quietly, "and I'll spread your teeth across the pavement."

Razor smiled.

There it was.

The hook.

He wanted her angry.

Wanted her reckless.

Wanted her in the race with blood hot enough to miss the edges of the trap.

Unfortunately for him, Nyra had been angry for two years.

She knew how to drive with it.

A horn blared near the starting line.

Razor nodded toward the road. "Win, and I give you what I know."

"And if I lose?"

"Then you stop asking questions about Hollow Sun."

Nyra's stomach tightened.

He said it too easily.

Hollow Sun.

Not whispered. Not guessed. Known.

"Fine," she said.

Razor's smile widened.

That was when she noticed the man by the warehouse roofline.

Not clearly.

Just a shape.

Black against darker black, too still to be another racer, too controlled to be drunk security.

Her pulse kicked once.

No.

Impossible.

Then the shape shifted, just enough for light to catch the edge of a skull-pattern mask.

Ghost.

Of course.

Because apparently the universe had developed a terrible sense of humor.

Ghost had come for Valez.

Again.

The Hollow Sun courier had surfaced near the race meet through a compromised logistics channel. Lucas had traced the meet location to a shipment handoff scheduled between midnight and one.

Ghost had no reason to expect Nyra Quinn.

Which was exactly why finding her there made something inside him go quiet in the wrong way.

From the warehouse roof, he watched her stand in the middle of engines, smoke, and armed men like she belonged to the chaos and hated that she did.

Wild girl.

Bruised knuckles.

Angry mouth.

No visible fear.

Kane crouched near the roof access beside him, binoculars trained on the crowd below.

"You seeing this?"

"Yes."

"She really has a talent for showing up in places people get shot."

Ghost adjusted his scope.

Below, Razor leaned close to Nyra.

Too close.

Ghost's finger settled along the rifle guard.

Kane noticed.

"Oh, don't start."

Ghost said nothing.

"That is not our problem."

Still nothing.

Kane lowered the binoculars just enough to look at him. "G."

Ghost's scope followed Nyra as she turned away from Razor and headed back to the Mustang. Her shoulders were loose, but not relaxed. Her right hand flexed twice.

Angry.

Controlled.

Barely.

"She's racing," Ghost said.

"Yes, I have eyes. She's also walking into bait with a ponytail and poor impulse control."

"Bandana," Ghost corrected.

Kane stared at him.

"What?"

Ghost didn't answer.

Below, the racers lined up.

Razor in the Challenger.

Nyra in the Mustang.

Two other cars, both modified, both carrying armed passengers.

That confirmed it.

Trap.

Not a race.

A funnel.

Ghost scanned the route. Industrial straightaway. Hard left beneath the overpass. Narrow service road beside the canal. Blind turn near the rail yard.

Perfect place to force a crash.

Perfect place to take someone alive.

His jaw tightened beneath the mask.

Kane's voice dropped. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm thinking."

"You're thinking extraction."

"And you're thinking murder."

Ghost watched Razor's passenger check a sidearm beneath the dash.

"Yes."

Kane sighed. "Fantastic. We're aligned."

The starter girl lifted both arms.

Engines screamed.

Nyra's Mustang shook like a chained animal.

For one suspended second, Ghost saw her through the windshield. One hand on the wheel. Chin slightly lowered. Smile gone.

Then the flag dropped.

The cars launched.

Nyra's Mustang hit first gear hard enough to spit smoke. The Challenger surged ahead half a length. The two flanking cars boxed in behind her, too close, too deliberate.

Ghost tracked the movement through the scope, already mapping angles.

Nyra saw it by the second turn.

Of course she did.

She dropped back instead of fighting forward, baiting the left car into closing the gap. The driver took it.

Bad decision.

Nyra cut the wheel and kissed his rear panel just enough to make him wobble. Not crash. Not yet. A warning disguised as poor control.

Kane muttered, "She can drive."

Ghost didn't say anything.

He had known that already.

The cars tore beneath the overpass, headlights flashing across concrete pillars. Spectators screamed from the sidelines. Someone fired a pistol into the air like an idiot.

Razor pulled ahead.

Nyra followed.

The right-side car moved in again.

This time, its passenger leaned out with a gun.

Ghost fired.