Free Tracked by Jenny Martin Page B

gradually fades up into the ruby blush on the hood. The crest over the engine is identical to the marks on my shoulder, but I sense the car and I are well-matched in ways beyond this.
    This is how they get you. With metal and gears, the Sixers dangle the hook you can’t refuse. They bait the trap with everything you want to taste. And just like that, they have me. I move closer to the driver’s side.
    â€œYou like?” Auguste asks me.
    I’ve been staring so intently, I’d almost forgotten where I was, and that there was anyone else here. I’ve been alone with the most perfect rig in the world—one that was made for me.
    Bear moves behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. It’s a gentle reminder to speak, but I’m at a loss for words. A feeble “Uh-huh” is all I can manage.
    â€œI think she likes it,” Cash says.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    I’m dying to look under the hood, but I want to let the engine speak for itself. I want to see how this thing handles first. Gil says they still have a few tweaks to finish, but they’ll need my input before making any more adjustments to my rig, so I beg for a test drive.
    Since I’ve yet to get fitted for racing gear, it’s not easy to get them to roll it out of the garage onto the oval practice course. Even so, I can tell I’m not the only one who wants a test drive, because everyone else on the crew follows us out to the sun-bleached track.
    Clear skies. Cool breezes. Perfect day for a ride.
    â€œListen now,” Gil warns me. He’s all squinty eyes and wide nose and gap teeth. “You just take it easy. If something happens and Benroyal finds out I let you open her up without fireproofing you first, we’re all out on our exhausts.”
    â€œJust a couple of laps,” I say. “I’ll be careful on the turns, I promise.”
    He and Cash step back while I slide through the driver’s- side window. I’m not used to a rig with no doors, and I’m a little embarrassed when Bear has to give me a hand. Next time no one’s around, I’m going to practice until I can jump in like a rally pro.
    I pull, and the steering wheel locks into place. Gil hands me a helmet. After I strap it on, I buckle the six-point. I give it a couple of tugs—it’s not as tight as it should be. The crew is going to have to make some belt adjustments to accommodate my runty frame. It’ll do for now, but when it’s race time, when I rocket through the backstretch at well over two hundred miles per hour, I’ll need the harness as tight as it can be to keep me firmly in the driver’s seat.
    I spy an ignition switch on the dash, but that’s about it. I flip it on and the engine hums to life. I don’t think I’ve ever heard sweeter music than its low purr. Even so, I’ve got a big problem on my hands. Besides the wheel, all I see are dead dash screens. And when I reach for the throttle and trigger stick, they’re not there.
    No stick? How am I supposed to drive without any control, any get up and go? “Um . . . I’m not really sure . . . ?”
    Cash leans through the driver’s-side window. “What’s the trouble, Vanguard? Never worked a hyper-screen setup?”
    â€œNo,” I croak.
    He smiles; it’s an exultant gleam. We’re on the same team, but I swear, every time his grin widens, it costs me something. I’m ashamed to admit he’s racking up victory points right and left.
    â€œThat’s all right,” he says. “I can give you the lowdown.” He pulls down my visor and flips a switch below the ignition. Suddenly the dash screens blink to life and jump right out at me. Literally. I flinch back against the seat as if the floating panels are going to bite. I can still see the windshield, but the tachometer and the rest of the gauges and controls hover near the bottom of my field of vision.
    In