Paul stood in the corner of the garage, staring at the small tablet in his hand. A digital map was displayed with a red dot that had been moving—now it was gone.
His brows furrowed.
"No way…" he muttered.
Marcus, still chewing on his sandwich, walked over, wiping his hands with a napkin.
"Something wrong, old man?"
Paul didn't respond immediately. He typed quickly, trying to reconnect to the tracker.
Signal lost.
He stood upright, staring at the screen one more time, then exhaled sharply.
"Robinson's watch... the tracker's either deactivated or destroyed."
Marcus's girlfriend, seated on the couch, glanced over.
"So, he knows?"
Paul muttered more to himself than to anyone else,
"Or someone else found out—and made him get rid of it. This isn't random…"
Marcus stood straighter.
"You think he was taken?"
Paul shook his head.
"No. He went willingly. But wherever he is now—it's not just some backstreet crew… This might be bigger than Zero Divide."
Marcus blinked.
"Race Vault?"
Paul slowly looked up, his expression sharpening.
"If they're the ones who disabled the tracker... then Robinson's just stepped into a world darker than anything we've handled before."
Marcus swallowed hard.
"What do we do now?"
Paul took a deep breath, gazing at the old classic car parked in the center of the garage. He closed his eyes briefly, then spoke calmly,
"We get ready. I'm calling the old team... and if I have to, I'll get back on the asphalt myself."
Marcus's girlfriend sat casually on the workbench, twirling a hair tie around her finger, though her eyes were sharp as she looked at Paul.
"Isn't the FBI still after the remaining members of Zero Divide?" she asked.
"Why not use this as a chance to restart the mission?"
Paul sighed and slowly sat on a metal stool near the parts rack.
"Because I'm not sure yet... Robinson's not ready. He's still a teenager, full of emotion. I'm afraid if he goes too deep, he won't be able to come back. One mistake... and he could end up in juvenile detention. Or worse."
Marcus leaned back against a car, arms crossed.
"I think we let it flow for now," he said, glancing at the tracker screen nearby.
"Robinson and that Zashiro guy—they've got something going on. They're not stupid. No way they joined something like Race Vault just for fun."
Paul didn't respond immediately. His eyes were focused but filled with concern.
"The problem is..." he finally said, "Race Vault isn't just a splinter of Zero Divide. They're opportunists. It might be more than racing—we're talking smuggling, weapons, maybe even contract kills. And if Robinson gets pulled too deep... we might lose him."
Marcus exchanged a glance with his girlfriend, then looked back at Paul.
"So, what are you going to do?"
Paul stared at the half-open garage door, light pouring in.
"I'll go back in... not as an agent. But as a father."
The air is thick with engine growls. Dim lights from rusted steel towers cast eerie glows over a line of cars, waiting like wild animals ready to be unleashed.
Robinson slides into his car. His hands tighten around the wheel, eyes scanning the digital dash. His heartbeat is off rhythm—this isn't a race. It's a mission.
Other cars, some older and covered in cryptic decals, rumble to life one by one. The other drivers stay silent, all seeming to follow an unspoken rule: no talking before the storm.
Zashiro walks up, crouching beside Robinson's window.
He leans in, speaking low and fast:
"Take the southern route. Don't go all out at the start. They'll be pushing speed, but that's not the real goal. The package is stashed behind the shipping port, in the old metal warehouse."
Robinson nods, sharp and focused.
Zashiro glances around, then leans even closer to the glass:
"If we pull this off, we'll find out who's really behind the drops. These guys? They're just middlemen."
Robinson checks his mirror, spotting one of the shady men from the party earlier—now behind the wheel of a blacked-out car.
"They're here too," Robinson mutters.
"You sure this isn't a setup?"
Zashiro gives a brief smirk.
"That's why I'm here."
He winks, then heads off to his own car.
SLAM!!
Car doors shut in near unison.
A red light sways overhead.
From atop a shipping container, someone yells:
"THREE... TWO... ONE... GO!!"
Engines roar. Tires scream.
Cars shoot forward into the night, each veering onto their assigned route—heading straight toward danger.
Through the hazy mist and dim city lights, cars were crashing one after another.
Some racers veered into ditches, some burst into flames. But Robinson was still going strong—
A burly man in a matte-black muscle car was right on his tail, aggressive and relentless.
They raced neck and neck through a narrow lane between shipping containers.
When the man tried to overtake, Robinson swerved, blocking him, then gunned it toward a rear entrance of an old warehouse.
CRASH!
Robinson's car bounced over some scrap metal, narrowly missing a wall, and screeched to a halt.
He jumped out and sprinted inside.
There, in the shadows, sat a large metal case, heavy-looking, sealed with digital locks.
"This must be it..." he muttered, straining to lift it and toss it into his trunk.
Just as he slammed the trunk shut—
RAT-A-TAT-TAT!!
Gunfire erupted behind him. Bullets hit nearby cars, glass shattered.
"Shitttt..." Robinson hissed, slammed the door shut, and hit the gas.
His car rocketed forward, dodging more bullets. One round nearly shattered the side window.
He took a sharp turn and veered off the main road into a tight alleyway, barely wide enough for the car.
Sweat dripped down his face. His hands clutched the wheel tight.
Meanwhile, at Race Vault HQ, the Vault Boss, a rugged man with long hair and a leather jacket, was approached by a hooded figure.
The man leaned in close, voice low and cold.
"You think we don't know who that boy is? He's Paul's kid. He's dangerous. Give us the boy and the package."
The Boss looked him dead in the eye.
"That's not how Race Vault works. We don't serve Zero Divide."
The figure hissed, "Too late. You're already playing on our field."
Just then, Zashiro appeared from behind, locking the man in a tight hold and slamming him against the wall.
"Tell your masters—he's not yours to claim."
In the chaos, Zashiro changed the HQ's access codes and signaled the other racers.
Back on the road—
Robinson swerved left hard, barely missing a trap vehicle waiting at the alley's end.
His heart raced as he muttered to himself:
"That was close..."
From the trunk, the mysterious case started to beep:
"Beep… Beep…"
"What the hell? A bomb?" he murmured, panic rising.
Suddenly, a voice crackled through the dashboard communicator—it was Zashiro:
"Robinson, stay on the road. Don't stop. I'm clearing the route ahead—just drive."