Chapter eight. Limping home

  Smoke trails behind as Alex coaxes the MR2 through the quiet backstreets, the engine coughing like a dying animal. The dash is lit up with warning lights — oil pressure, turbo fault, power steering — the whole system crying out.

  He grips the wheel tighter, sweat dripping from his temple.

  “Come on… just a few more blocks.”

  The phone buzzes against the dash mount. Chloe’s name lights up.

  “Alex?” Her voice is sharp, worried.

  “Yeah. It’s bad,” he says through clenched teeth. “Turbo’s gone. Oil’s leaking like crazy. Lost the steering halfway.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Got rammed. Outta nowhere. I ditched the cops, but… she’s not gonna make it far.”

  There’s a pause — then Chloe sighs. “Get it here. I’ll open the garage.”

  He turns onto her street, sputtering on each shift. The rear tires break loose as he downshifts — the car fishtails hard, tail swinging out and clipping the curb with a sharp thud.

  Sparks burst from beneath as the exhaust scrapes the pavement, a metallic rattle echoing through the empty road. He wrestles the wheel, straightening out, but the steering’s gone stiff and heavy. Smoke begins to bleed from under the hood, the smell of burnt oil choking the cabin.

  “Come on, hold it together,” he mutters through his teeth, jaw tight.

  A few houses down, the dash lights flicker, one by one dying out. Something clanks free from underneath, bouncing and sparking along the tarmac.

  Then—blue and red light flares ahead, Alex tenses, pulse hammering. For a second he thinks it’s cops closing in. He kills the headlights, coasting slow. The siren grows louder, echoing off the glass fronts of parked cars. But as it passes, it’s an ambulance — a blur of white and chrome, rushing toward the city.

  He exhales shakily, gripping the wheel tighter as the MR2 coughs, sputters, and groans in protest. He coasts the final stretch, praying it makes it just a few more metres.

  Streetlights streak across the cracked windshield, reflections of the night’s chaos. When he finally spots her house, the garage door is already rolling up, Chloe standing there barefoot in jeans and a loose hoodie, phone still in hand.

  The MR2 barely crawls up her driveway. The idle drops. Power steering stiffens. Then — silence. The engine cuts out, and the car dies right there, halfway in the garage.

  Alex exhales, palms still locked on the wheel.

  “Damn it…”

  Chloe rushes over, ducking under the half-open door, waving him off. “Kill the lights, I’ve got it.”

  She crouches, eyes scanning the oil dripping under the chassis.

  “Looks like the turbo line blew. And your rack’s toast too.”

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  He kicks at the floor lightly. “Yeah, I felt that.”

  Chloe glances up at him, arms crossed. “You’re lucky you even made it here.”

  Alex gives her a tired grin. “Told you I don’t get caught.”

  She smirks faintly. “Doesn’t count if your car dies first.”

  He chuckles once, but there’s no joy behind it. The MR2 hisses softly, a wounded beast cooling down.

  Chloe turns, wiping her hands on a rag. “You better tell me what really happened, Alex. ‘Cause that wasn’t just a cop chase.”

  He meets her eyes.

  “No,” he says quietly. “Someone wanted me out of that race. And I’m gonna find out who.”

  Alex climbs out of the MR2, the door creaking in protest. His hands are shaking slightly, adrenaline still pulsing.

  Chloe’s eyes flick down — her expression changes instantly.

  “Alex,” she says, stepping forward, “you’re bleeding.”

  He blinks, glances at his forearm. A deep scrape runs from wrist to elbow, blood smeared down to his hand. He hadn’t even felt it through the chaos.

  “Huh… guess I was a little distracted.”

  “Sit,” she orders, pointing to a stool by her tool bench.

  She grabs a first-aid kit from the shelf, snapping it open on the workbench. Inside, half the supplies look years old, but she finds what she needs — antiseptic wipes, gauze, and a roll of clean bandage.

  “Hold still,” she says, ripping one of the wipes free. The smell of alcohol cuts through the faint scent of oil and smoke. She presses it against the gash along his forearm — a jagged scrape where metal must’ve caught him. Dried blood streaks his skin, and bits of dirt and rust cling stubbornly to the wound.

  The sting hits instantly. He hisses through his teeth, pulling back on reflex. “Still hate that stuff.”

  “Still better than infection,” she fires back, scrubbing harder just to make a point. When he flinches again, she almost smirks. Then she checks the edges — not deep enough for stitches, but close. A thin line of fresh blood seeps through as she unrolls the bandage.

  She wraps it tight, layer after layer, tucking the end neatly and pressing it down. “That’ll hold,” she mutters. “Try not to tear it open again — or better yet, try not to get yourself shredded next time.”

  He flexes his hand, testing the wrap. “Feels fine.”

  “Good,” she says, tossing the used wipe into a bin. “Because next time you pull a stunt like that, it might just be your arm you lose. And I’m not wasting another bandage on whatever’s left.”

  He huffs a tired laugh. “Appreciate the concern.”

  “Wasn’t concern,” she says, already packing the kit away. “It’s called resource management.”

  For a few seconds, it’s quiet — just the soft tick of cooling metal from the MR2.

  Chloe then she stands, “Alright, hero. Let’s see what’s left of your car.”

  They pop the front hood. The smell of burnt oil and coolant fills the small garage. The turbo housing is cracked clean through, hoses split, oil pooled beneath.

  They work through the night — silent except for clinking tools and the faint hum of Chloe’s old radio. Every time Alex thinks he’s found the fix, another issue shows up. Power steering rack blown. Mounts bent. The charge pipe split.

  After hours, Chloe leans back against the wall, wiping sweat from her forehead.

  “It’s no use,” she says, voice low but firm. “You’ll need new lines, new turbo, maybe even a full rack assembly. Could take a week — maybe more.”

  Alex sighs, slamming the wrench on the bench. “A week… great.”

  Chloe crosses her arms, watching him. “What the hell happened out there, Alex?”

  He takes a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Rico called me this morning. Said there was a new race — big one. Daylight run across the city. Six racers. Said it was for something bigger than just prize money. Some ‘recruitment test.’”

  Chloe’s brow furrows. “Recruitment for what?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Didn’t care, honestly. But halfway through the run, someone rammed me — hard. Out of nowhere. Black Charger. No plates. Drove like he knew what he was doing.”

  Chloe’s eyes narrow. “That wasn’t random.”

  “Yeah,” Alex says quietly, looking back at his wrecked car. “Feels like someone wanted me gone before I could find out what that ‘something big’ really was.”

  The two stand there in the dim garage light, the smell of oil and blood in the air, both knowing this wasn’t just another street race anymore.

  The night drags on until exhaustion wins.

  Alex ends up passed out on the old leather sofa in the corner of Chloe’s garage — boots still on, oil stains on his hands. The faint smell of gasoline clings to everything.

  The MR2 sits nearby on jacks, its rear end stripped open, like a wounded animal mid-surgery