The SUV shot forward like a wild horse, an arrow loosed from its bowstring, merging into the flow of traffic.
Behind him, a red Maserati quietly followed.
Wilfred's speed was staggering.
In the blink of an eye, the speedometer hit ninety and kept climbing.
The scenery on both sides blurred into streaks. The black Range Rover cut through the road like a dark hurricane.
Inside, Wilfred's face was expressionless, his eyes bright and fixed ahead. Adrenaline surged through him, peaking with every mile per hour.
It had been so long since he'd driven like this.
In that moment, a trace of who he used to be flickered back to life.
"Holy shit, who the hell is that? That car's practically flying!"
"Damn! Did you see that drift? Absolutely insane!"
In a sports car Wilfred had just blown past, a group of trust-fund kids gawked at the Range Rover's taillights, whooping in disbelief.
One of them—a girl with yellow hair and a nose ring—was trembling with excitement. "Find out who that is! I haven't seen anyone that cool in years!"
"I want to race him!"
A voice crackled through her wireless earpiece: "No need to look it up. That plate's easy to spot—it's Lawrence Dickerson's car."
"Lawrence?"