Free Tracked by Jenny Martin Page A

while to keep everyone straight. Dev is huge, the strongman of the group. I’ll have to think of other ways to help me remember the others, who are all short, agile- looking grunts.
    â€œBen is your trigger man, the guy who’ll always load your fuel for you—”
    â€œYou can call me Banjo,” Ben pipes in. “Everybody does.”
    â€œBanjo it is, then.” I nod.
    Banjo’s a hayseed blond with a toothy grin. Bet he was born and bred far from Capitoline and only wandered here when he ran out of tractors and dry season tillers in need of repair.
    â€œAnd these guys . . .” Cash turns toward the remaining stragglers. “They keep things running smoothly in the pit stall and in the garage. Mr. Gil Gates is your crew chief and he’s also your chief mechanic. Navin oversees all bodywork and he’s our detail man. No one makes it shine like he does.”
    I nearly fall over when Gil offers his congratulations. I’ve seen the feeds. A million times, I’ve watched the highlight recaps. He’s old-school, a rally legend. There’s isn’t a driver alive who wouldn’t kiss Gil Gates’s feet and beg him to join their team. I’m humbled that Gil and everyone else smile at me, a nothing street rat racer. I hadn’t expected them all to treat me with such uncommon respect. I shake hands with every person in the room, even the guys Cash doesn’t introduce, the nameless grease monkeys who walk over to greet Benroyal’s latest driver.
    I’m lit like a live wire, practically twitching with excitement, but through it all, Bear is stone faced and quiet. For him, there’s no introduction, no explanation of duties. He is lost here, and I don’t know what to say to reassure him.
    Auguste is distracted, talking shop with Gil, when I notice Cash taking one last look at the roster. His expression clouds, so I look over his shoulder. My eyes sweep to the bottom of the list and find Bear’s name there.
    Barrett Larssen—floor sweeper
    â€œI had nothing to do with this,” he says. “I swear.”
    â€œThis isn’t going to fly with me, Cash,” I say. “No way. Not okay.”
    Bear moves to my side. “What’s not okay?”
    Before Bear can get so much as a split-second glimpse, Cash wipes the screen. “Nothing,” he says. “We were just discussing paint schemes.”
    For a moment, Cash and I stare at each other. I hope he can read the silent thank-you on my face. They can arrest me, terminate my contract, do what they will, but I’d sooner be cut loose and tossed in juvie than allow Bear to see himself as anything less than a full-fledged crew member. Cash can call himself my pacer to appease Benroyal and the powers that be, but Bear will always be the voice on the other end of my headset.
    â€œYeah,” I say to Bear. “I was just saying that I wanted to see the scheme they’ve got on my rig.”
    We’ve captured Auguste’s attention again. He perks up when I mention the vehicle. “Well then,” he says, motioning at it. “Take a peek for yourself.”
    Cash and Gil pull the cover forward. It slips off and pools on the floor like a castoff silken gown. It’s the big reveal, the moment I’ve been waiting for, maybe for longer than I’d ever thought. Can a dream sleep for a lifetime, only to surface and breathe the second it comes true?
    My own circuit rig.
    It’s beautiful. Almost my snub-nosed Talon, only the body curves more subtly, and every plane is smooth as glass. All the seams and rough edges are gone, made invisible with body filler and gloss. And unlike the rig I sunk by the docks, this one is drenched in crimson, a red richer than garnet, deeper than blood. The paint detail is gorgeous. Sharp black pin-striping on each side. The air dam—the low, ground-skimming dip of the front bumper—is painted gold. The glimmer