The Driver's Syndicate

EIGHTEEN

"Listen to this."
From the rear end, a raucous and savage burst of the finest American horses came charging out of the exhausts. For a muscle car, it proved to be an electrifying and raw attempt at making the purest noise possible, crushing all other challengers and drowning out their best efforts.
"What d'ya think of that?" asked Chuckles as he changed gears.
"It's probably too loud," Shane commentated, "but for me it's better that way."
The pair of them were travelling along a freeway, on their way to a special event which Jagger had organised. That morning, whilst Shane was having another check-up in Tyson's office, several invitations had been sent out to the majority of racers. He still remembered a fit, athletic-looking man walking into the office without order, handing Shane a white envelope with a signature on it.
"For you," was all the man had said, his English clearly below-average.
Shane had taken to envelope from the man and opened it, tearing the corners off as he fought with the packaging. A card fell onto his lap, with a message handwritten by Jagger himself. It gave some instructions, specifically to come to a location at precisely seven thirty that evening, followed by an address and coordinates for further guidance. Shane was so engrossed in the message he didn't see Tyler inject a needle into his upper arm, resulting in an unfortunate reaction.
After a moderate roasting, Shane managed to escape from the medical office, only to bump into Chuckles, who also had an envelope on him. One thing led to another, and the result was the two of them sharing a ride together to the location printed on the card. Even in a world where criminals roamed like they were predators, some good could be hanging around if those who were smart enough knew where it laid.
They were travelling in Chuckles' Chevrolet 2016 Camaro SS, painted in red with a white stripe running down the sides, from the front lights to the trunk. According to Chuckles, the paint used for the stripes had been applied by hand rather than using a robot to do the job. This had cost him a considerable amount of cash, and certainly it wasn't an option a normal customer would have in mind.
After entering the coordinates into the sat-nav, Chuckles and Shane had realised that the location Jagger had printed on the card would lead them to the state of Nevada, and when they zoomed in they found out more specifically he wanted them to come to Las Vegas, much to their surprise. They had left at around early afternoon, but by the time they were near to the city outskirts the sun was setting. Only the top of the circular disc was all that remained, and that too was slipping away.
"What do you think Jagger's got in store for us?" asked Shane as they glided past The Stratosphere, a hotel and casino boasting the second tallest observation tower in the Western Hemisphere. At over three hundred and fifty metres above ground, Shane couldn't help but wonder how the designers had managed to convince the city authorities to let them go that far. Not that it made the area any more pleasant to look act. The long needle-like tower was swamped by a series of drab, measly buildings that housed the hotel rooms. It distracted from the main attraction, and would have been better off being placed elsewhere.
"I'm a pretty reliable guy when it comes to questions," replied Chuckles. "But that one I can't seem to answer to."
In truth, Shane hadn't asked himself that question. Of course, he was curious regardless where they were going. Jagger had planned hundreds of events months in advance, including three Shane had participated in. So why was the criminal leading them to an entirely different state with little to no warning in advance? It couldn't be another race, that was for sure. Jagger wouldn't do that unless there was a potential danger posed on the course. But even if that was the case, why hadn't it be said beforehand?
As he pondered his thoughts, Shane watched as the remaining sights of Las Vegas flew past him in a matter of seconds. The other noticeable buildings stood out, all of them in separate ways. Some were taller, but the rest were generally no more than a few storeys high. Others spread out across most of the street they were located on. Each one of them had their own story to tell which began the moment the doors pinged open. It felt as if the city had a unique and varied identity it boasted, one that kept changing with every road and boulevard. There are numerous cities that fail to captivate the meaning of stunning, but Las Vegas managed to reach that achievement, and then some.
In the darkness though, most of the image portrayed was locked in a tenebrous closet. On this particular evening, it was as if the city was in a bad mood. Even then, Shane and Chuckles would be stopping to take in the beauty. They had twelve minutes until the deadline was up. For the last few miles, Chuckles had driven his car with a much firmer attitude. The Chevrolet was taking corners more frequently now, and when it did it managed to keep its back end from sliding out, something Shane's Mustang had done in the past. They were thrust left and right in their seats, only getting the occasional relief when the roads straightened up and the cabin continued channeling a supercharged grunt inside, all six point two litres of it.
Soon, the Las Vegas Bay came into view, stretching on and on into the distance. Scattered across the water were minuscule patches of black and green, revealing themselves to be islands, each one haphazardly shaped. Not far away was the Hoover Dam, wedged between the border separating Nevada with Arizona. But Shane and Chuckles were not heading that way. Instead they were heading for Boulder Beach, and eventually reached a grubby looking RV park which was half-empty.
The next few minutes passed by in a breeze. With no traffic on the road for the first time in a while, the Chevrolet sprinted along a longer straight for about half a mile until they reached a final T-junction directing them left in the direction of the bay. This was Hemingway Harbour. Whilst there were a handful of cars spread all over the place, both Shane and Chuckles very quickly spotted a waiting Landing Craft Air Cushion (LCAC) hovercraft, resting on a launch ramp ready for the signal to go. The Chevrolet carefully drove onto the landing bay, joining a pair of Tesla Model 3 electric sedans that were also on board, both of them pained in a metallic white and registered on private number plates.
The LCAC is mainly used in the American navy as a boat, load-carrier and a low-altitude aircraft. When the ramps had been raised, two propellers started up, generating four and a half thousand horsepower, ten times more than the Chevrolet could boast. For a hovercraft designed to carry seventy tonnes worth of military equipment, however, the output seemed relatively modest.
Throughout the short course the LCAC travelled, Shane and Chuckles remained inside their vehicle. Nobody else was out and even if they wanted to get some fresh air, suspicion would be raised amongst the two guards patrolling the sides, keeping on eye on both the water and the land. Though Shane's first thought was that they were heading for one of the nearby island, the LCAC continued onward until it finally came to a stop, several miles north on a patch of land known as Callville Point. Shane patiently waited for both of the Teslas to depart before giving Chuckles the go-ahead. As they brought their car back on the ground, Shane glanced in his wing mirror and saw that the bridge was some distance away.
The Teslas were heading away from the lakes eastward and in the direction of a building the same size and shape of a stadium. Chuckles followed behind along the road they were using. Here the surface was uneven, meaning the Chevrolet had a tricker time keeping up. Chuckles cursed under his breath as the front bumper grazed against fresh dirt and scooped it up as if it was a claw. "If I knew we were gonna be going off-road, I would have brought my jeep."
"Your jeep?"
"Oh, I have every type of vehicle necessary for whatever the weather stacks against me," said Chuckles. "I'll tell you about that some other time, though."
Now the surface was becoming smoother. As the three cars approached the building, the Teslas suddenly came to a stop, prompting Chuckles to follow suit. From the side, two burly men walked towards the cars, both of them bearing a resemblance to the other guy Shane had received the invitation from earlier. When they reached the sedans, one of them knocked on the driver window, with the other doing the same for the following vehicle several feet back.
"They're probably gonna park their cars for them," muttered Chuckles to himself.
His predictions came into the light when the drivers got out, revealing themselves to be the Khalami twins. They handed over the credit-card key and strode away from their vehicles. Even though a Tesla Model 3 uses an app to unlock and lock itself, Shane had been told that the brothers had spent years living in a desert where any kind of electronics were probably considered a gift from the devil himself.
Once the twins had given both of their cards to the two men, all they could do was watch as their cars disappeared from view. But instead of follow the same path that the men had drove along, the twins went the other way, and they too soon vanished.
"What do we do now?" asked Shane.
"I think," said Chuckles, "we leave the car here."
He unfastened his seatbelt and stepped out of the Chevrolet. Shane, still unaware of what to do, followed suit. By now an unnatural eeriness had begun to fill the atmosphere. The LCAC had been gone for a while now, so either it had returned to the bridge to pick up more vehicles or had turned in for the night.
Chuckles was staring to the right, where the Teslas had last been seen.
"I think we're meant to be going that way," muttered Shane. He began strutting over to the left, seeming like the best idea to him. With bewildered glances, Chuckles tagged behind.
The building itself was curved and flat on the sides, with the exception of a set of double doors buried further into the walls. It didn't seem to have been forgotten, which was surprising given the modern look it posed. As Shane and Chuckles reached them, they were met with an unlikely sight.
"Yes, yes. I get it. The bugger wants his car back. But in two days? Only a magician can do that!" snorted a neatly dressed man, in his early thirties. He spoke with a recognisable and smooth Colorado accent. "And am I? No, for Christ's sake!"
All Shane could do was watch in puzzlement. He had no idea what was going on between the Colorado man and the person on the other end, but hoped that the call be done and over with fairly soon.
"Why?" exclaimed the Colorado man. "There's no way I can get it to him in that time. It's a freakin' nuisance."
"The only nuisance here," muttered Chuckles under his breath, "is that this guy hasn't noticed us."
Suddenly the Colorado man fell quiet. Then he spoke in a hurry, tripping over his words. "Tell him to go -- himself." Then he hung up, turning to face Shane and Chuckles.
"H-how much of that did you hear?" he asked, the voice barely more audible than a whisper.
Shane stepped in. "We came in around the part you said about someone wanting their car back."
The man allowed himself to relax. "Fine, fine. Now, bear with me for a moment..."
He opened the notes app on his phone, beckoning to Chuckles as he spoke. "And you are?"
"Michael 'Chuckles' Donegal."
"You learn something new every day," added Shane, as up until now he had only known the tattooed ruffian by the nickname everyone had given to him.
The man now faced Shane. "And you are?"
"Sneaker."
This time, the Colorado man kept staring at him, his eyebrows now raised.
"Do you want my full name?" asked Shane, who was feeling concerned about this situation.
"Not that," replied the man, "It's just that I can't find your name anywhere-wait, wait a sec."
He kept staring at the screen before turning it the other way to show Shane. "Yeah, that's your name alright."
"Why is it underlined?"
"How am I supposed to know these things?" the man grumbled. "Now I suggest you get your assess inside before Andy calls back. A red-faced Andy at the least."
He turned and wandered off, his feet scraping the dirt with every step.
"What an odd fella," said Chuckles.
"You can say that again," muttered Shane.
They pushed the doors open, letting a gust of warm evening air drift past.
Inside, the interior revealed itself to have a stylish theme to it, with a couple of fake ice sculptures dotted throughout the place. Several people had come in suits and bow ties, compared with Chuckles' vest and grimy trousers. Shane fared better with his buttoned-collar shirt and denim jeans which were rubbing against his skin. Some tables had been set up near the back, with drinks taking up a considerable amount of the space. Tattered boxes filled with glasses, not cheap plastic cups that could be scrunched up, were stacked on the floor beside, two of them already open. Half-full jugs of water and bottles were also included. In the background, Shane could hear some electronic music playing, coming out of a subwoofer hidden underneath another table. Random conversations were going on between numerous groups of people, about how exciting the recent competition had been or what was planned for the final race of the season.
This didn't feel like a meeting point. It felt more like a party.
"Unbelievable," muttered Shane, his voice uneven.
"I know, right?" said Chuckles, a grin plastered on his face. Then his attention turned to someone else in the corner of the room, and he waved to get attention. "Yo, Little V!"
"Who's Little V?" asked Shane.
"He's a friend of mine," explained Chuckles. He was about to walk away when he faced Shane with a reassuring expression on his face. "You gonna be alright on your own?"
"I'll cope," replied Shane, shrugging his shoulders.
Chuckles nodded. "Alright. Just remember, you can always come over and find me if needs must. Though it probably won't take you much time to do so."
Shane let out a chuckle as the likeable hulk strode away. For all the 'tough guy' opinions people had about Chuckles, he could certainly crack a joke in the most sensible situations.
Now that he was gone, though, Shane felt isolated. He hardly knew anyone else even though it had been a week since his arrival. And those who would be willing to speak with him would probably be wanting his autograph or a ride at some point, and these were the type of people Shane had wished to avoid. Even so, it would be nice to have someone normal to talk to.
He rolled his tongue around his mouth. It felt dry and hard, and now seemed like the best opportunity to grab a drink. It had been several hours now since he'd last had anything pass through his mouth, since Chuckles hadn't stopped off along the way for fear of missing the deadline.
As he watched the water trickle out of the jug and splash into the glass, Shane passed the time by considering whether or not he had been successful in finding out who killed Rob. The only major lead he had made was Grace's death, and thanks to Jagger himself he had come to understand it was his doing. He'd also won two out of four races in the competition, and along the way he'd met and befriended some members of the opposition. Chuckles, Tyson, hell, even Marie. So whilst everything seemed mostly positive all the way, Shane wasn't prepared to slam the door shut just yet. Anything could happen within the next few hours, and he wanted to be there in case it would be useful to him. Besides, he still had no proof that Jagger was responsible for the death of Rob. Maybe the true killer hadn't been here the entire time, and had escaped to a country overseas. But if it wasn't him who had actually shot Rob, maybe he had hired the person responsible? Perhaps as a means of denying his collusion with the killer? Given that Grace and Darcy had died in suspicious, but hardly subtle circumstances, it seemed plausible to presume that employing a professional to do the killing was something Jagger might do.
The glass was three-quarters full. Shane put the jug to one side and downed as much water as he could manage, emptying the glass in seconds. He was about to refill when out of the corner of his eye, a flash of bright yellow caught his attention. 
"Look who it is," said a female voice. "The magnificent Sneaker. You certainly live up to the nickname."
Shane faced the other way to see who it was. A women of around twenty-five or twenty-six years old, wearing a dress that covered her body with the exception of the arms and shoulders, as well as a pair of glittering white slippers, was standing barely three feet away. She wasn't wearing any makeup, and had no lipstick on either. Her hair was tied in a neat ponytail that came down to the back of her neck. Despite this, Shane didn't know who this woman was or why she was here speaking to him.
"I wouldn't call it a nickname," Shane replied, truthfully. He'd only chosen 'Sneaker' because that was what most major criminals did in their line of business; they were able to sneak past the opposition in whatever way they could.
"Well, I like it," said the woman, holding out her hand. "I should probably introduce myself. Victoria Cruscina. Latino by blood, but American-born."
"I see," Shane pushed his glass to one side and straightened up so not to give the impression that he was a slacker.
"So, tell me, Sneaker," continued Victoria, "How do you do it?"
"How do I do what?"
"You know what I mean," said the woman. "The jump you did in that Nomad? Crossing the drag strip finish line a millimetre ahead of Jagger? Managing to survive a Recondite Race, all whilst finishing first with no damage to your vehicle?"
"I kinda scraped the passenger side-"
"Then you went on to compete in Knockout, and even though you didn't win that time round, you actually got out alive after you flipped over. And without any major injuries. I mean, how is that possible? Oh, and don't even get me started on that cop chase last week."
"You know about that?" asked Shane. "I mean, it wasn't something I expected to happen-"
"Pretty much everyone here knows about it," said Victoria. "We saw it unfold on the news. But what I'm really intrigued by is how you do it. There's not many people out there the same age you are that can drive cars in a way that could put a lotta professionals to shame. I mean, that's just my opinion, but you know..."
Shane bit his tongue. He hadn't been asked any personal questions whilst on this mission, and now along came some random woman and her only desire was to understand the genius behind his driving. But that wasn't why he was hesitant. Everything he'd said or done came with a consequence. Although it hadn't escalated any further than he wished, Shane was now facing a query that could potentially drag him to his grave. Sure, Victoria was a nice person who seemed to pose not much of a risk to him on the outside. Unless there was proof that she was innocent, however, revealing information considered personal and secretive could result in his downfall.
"It's a little complicated," he replied, hoping to leave this subject alone. "It's not as if I was born with this talent...'
"Oh, that's fine," said Victoria, both reassuringly and pestering. "I'd much rather hear the full story than an edited version."
Inside, Shane knew there was no other option to take.
"Fine," he said. "You want me to tell you? I'll be happy to explain..."