1:17 pm. EST — Collins Ave, Miami Beach, Florida
Carrera tore through the car's interior in a panic, opening compartments and rifling through every drawer and pocket until her hand brushed against the cold metal of a small handgun strapped beneath the driver's seat. Her fingers gripped the weapon, pulling it free. She quickly checked the magazine—12 rounds loaded—and switched off the safety. With a swift motion, she racked the slide, then leapt from the car, weapon raised and aimed at Faydra. "I don't know who you are, but try me and find out—"
But before Carrera could finish her threat, she froze. Faydra had removed her helmet, revealing a face that struck her with a wave of recognition. "Phae! Phaedra Lafleur?"
"In the flesh," Faydra smiled. "Now, can you put that gun away and let me help you out?"
Carrera engaged the safety and lowered the weapon. "What are you doing here, and why have you been following me?" she asked, absentmindedly scratching her head with the gun's barrel.
Faydra shrugged. "It's a long story, child," she replied, pulling a small bug detection device from her backpack and beginning to scan the car. "But I've been keeping an eye on you for a few weeks now."
"You have?" Carrera raised an eyebrow.
"I know about your father's heart attack. My condolences." Faydra paused for a moment, her gaze flicking over the car's exterior as she scanned it. When the device's light flickered green near the brake light, she quickly unscrewed the lens cover and removed it. Inside, a small GPS tracker lay nestled in the compartment. With one swift motion, Faydra crushed the device beneath her boot and reinstalled the brake light cover
"I also know about your father's shops," she continued, moving to scan the interior of the car. "And the dirty loan sharks who took them over." As the device's green light blinked again over the passenger seat cushion, Faydra retrieved another GPS tracker and tossed it to Carrera. "Can you dispose of this one for me?"
Confused but intrigued by Faydra's speed and precision, Carrera caught the device and crushed it beneath her heel. "Okay, you know all about me," she said, still processing. "But that doesn't explain why you've been tailing me, or why you're helping me now. We've never exactly been close. What's with the sudden act of kindness?
Faydra crouched by the front bumper and gestured to Carrera; her voice sharp. "Pop the hood."
Carrera hesitated for a brief moment, but then, with a quick flick of keys, the Ferrari's hood clicked open, revealing the engine, gleaming under the dim light of the parking lot.
Faydra leaned over the engine, a look of quiet expertise on her face as the beam from her phone's flashlight swept across its interior. Her movements were methodical, her eyes narrowing in focus as she inspected each component. "Found it," she muttered, extracting a small black tracker lodged near the air intake. Without hesitation, she crushed it beneath her heel. With a soft thud, she closed the hood and stood up, wiping her hands on her pants.
Carrera stood by the car, watching her, still unsure of everything that was unfolding. Faydra wiped the dust from her hands and approached her slowly, her gaze hardening. "You're in a bind, C," she began, her voice low but firm. "And so am I. You need money. And I need drivers."
Carrera raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "Drivers for what?"
Faydra's lips curled into a faint smile. "Black Flag."
Carrera blinked. She knew of Black Flag. Everyone in the racing world had heard whispers of it—a dangerous underground race unlike any other. "I don't race anymore," Carrera said, her voice flat. "I haven't raced since we were kids. And besides, that was motocross. Not road racing. I wouldn't be able to keep up."
Faydra's gaze softened, just a fraction. "You were the best, C. Even back then, we all knew you had something special." She paused, searching Carrera's eyes. "Call it vision. Call it intuition. I don't know. But you have a gift—a talent that can't be taught or bought. I've been watching you these last few weeks. I can still see remnants of the old you in the way you drive. You're not done. Not by a long shot."
Carrera shifted uncomfortably, still unconvinced. "I don't know, Phae."
Faydra's expression hardened, her patience thinning. "What's the alternative, huh? You keep stealing cars for the next five years? How long will that last? Look at you—almost brought in a car with three trackers. You're living on borrowed time. It's only a matter of time before you get caught, and then what? You'll be back to square one, or worse... jail."
Faydra took a step closer, her voice lowering, intense. "Just think about it, C. I'm talking about real money. The kind of money that buys back your father's shops. The kind of money that gives you a way out of this mess. You wouldn't need to keep stealing cars. You'd be set. You could own your future again."
Carrera paused, her brow furrowed, her thoughts tangled. The weight of Faydra's words settled heavily on her chest. Before she could speak, the distant wail of sirens sliced through the tension in the air, sharp and insistent. Faydra's head snapped toward the sound. The noise grew louder and closer.
"Dammit," Faydra muttered under her breath. Without another word, she sprinted toward her bike, her boots echoing against the concrete. She flipped the ignition, the engine roaring to life. Faydra adjusted the small radio mounted on the bike, dialing into a police frequency. A burst of static filled the air before a voice broke through.
"Units en route. Suspect's vehicle, silver Ferrari, spotted entering a parking lot off Collins Ave. Stolen car confirmed. Approach with caution."
Her eyes locked on Carrera's, intensity radiating from her. "We have to move. Now!"
The sharp whine of a police siren pierced the air, its oscillating cry drawing the attention of pedestrians along the busy street. A police cruiser and motorcycle approached the small parking lot at a steady pace, their flashing lights bouncing off the surrounding storefront windows.
Just as the cruiser neared the entrance, a metallic scream filled the street—a silver Ferrari surged into view like a wild animal breaking loose. A black motorcycle shot out behind it, tires skidding briefly before finding purchase, the rider leaning low over the handlebars.
"Jesus Christ!" the officer at the wheel shouted, yanking the steering wheel hard to avoid a collision as the two vehicles zipped past.
The officer riding shotgun leaned forward, radio crackling in his hand. "Dispatch, this is Unit 42, suspects just exited the Collins Ave parking lot. Silver Ferrari and a black motorcycle. Currently in pursuit."
"Copy that, Unit 42. Backup en route."
The Ferrari tore down the street, weaving between traffic with razor-sharp precision. The motorcycle stayed close behind, a ghostly shadow to the gleaming sports car.
"Man, they're fast," muttered the driver of the police cruiser, gripping the wheel tighter. "Can you get a plate on that bike?"
"Negative," said the passenger, squinting at the taillights ahead. "It doesn't seem to have any tags."
The cruiser's siren howled as they pursued the pair through the dense Miami streets, pedestrians diving out of the way as the suspects cut corners and darted between cars. The officer at the wheel cursed as the Ferrari slid through a tight left turn into an alleyway, the motorcycle right on its tail.
"Stay with them!"
The cruiser's tires skidded as it attempted to follow. But the alley was too narrow, the brick walls looming too close. With a frustrated grunt, the officer slammed on the brakes.
"Let's go around," the driver growled.
"Motorcycle's got them!" his partner replied, pointing at the other officer on the bike, who had seamlessly entered the alley, its narrow silhouette slicing through the space with ease.
The officer revved his engine, weaving through the tight alleyway with skill born of years on the force. Ahead, the Ferrari's taillights glowed bright red, illuminating the shadows of the alley. The officer roared closer, leaning into each turn as the suspects dodged dumpsters, stray cats, and low-hanging signs.
Just as the alley opened up onto a broader road, the officer surged forward, matching the Ferrari and the black bike stride for stride. But then, with a howl of engines, both suspects veered hard onto a side street. The Ferrari slid across the pavement, its rear fishtailing briefly before Carrera expertly regained control. Right behind her, Faydra leaned hard into the turn, sparks flying as the footpeg scraped the ground.
The officer tried to mirror their moves, but his bike wasn't built for this kind of chase. As he whipped the handlebars to follow, the weight of the motorcycle shifted and the bike skidded uncontrollably, slamming into a stack of pallets beside a parked van.
Grunting, he scrambled to his feet, his shoulder screaming in pain. Grabbing his radio with shaky hands, he barked into it. "Dispatch, Officer Cole! Suspects westbound on 8th, Ferrari and black motorcycle. I'm down but not out—need units to intercept!"
He turned to his fallen bike, its engine sputtering to a stop, and cursed under his breath. In the distance, the roar of the fleeing vehicles dissolved into the ambient hum of the city.
9:49 pm. EST — Sunset Customs Garage, Medley, Florida
The darkened street glistened faintly from an earlier rain, the few remaining puddles reflecting the dull glow of flickering streetlights. At the end of the block stood a small box-shaped automotive repair garage painted in a faded sky-blue. Its roll-up gate was wide open, spilling light onto the cracked asphalt. Inside, the rumble of an NFL game echoed through the space, the Dolphins and Patriots locked in a fierce battle on an oversized TV mounted to the far wall.
Spare parts cluttered the floor, tools hung neatly on shadowboards, and a faint smell of motor oil lingered in the air. Sitting on a car lift at the center of it all was Faydra, her motorcycle uniform peeled down to her waist, revealing a black-and-white wifebeater and a thin gold chain that caught the light with every movement. She leaned back casually, a beer bottle in hand, laughing at something someone had said.
"Yo, another one for me!" she called, tossing her empty bottle to a nearby mechanic, who caught it with ease and tossed a fresh one back from a cooler. Before she could twist off the cap, a booming voice cut through the noise.
"Eh, Faydra! Some girl named 'C' is here to see you!" shouted a tall, round Dominican mechanic with an oversized grin, his name patch reading "Manny el Gordo."
Faydra perked up, a sharp grin spreading across her face. Carrera stepped out from behind El Gorodo, with her helmet tucked under her arm, "Hey, Phae."
"C!" Faydra exclaimed, jumping off the lift and sprinting toward Carrera. She wrapped her arms around her and spun her in a joyful circle.
"Relax!" Carrera protested, pulling back slightly as she caught the curious stares of the garage crew, all eyes now on her. "I'm not here to join up just yet," she added, smoothing out her jacket. "I'm only here to learn more about Black Flag, that's all."
Faydra smiled, taking a step back. "How much did you clear today, selling that Ferrari?"
"A little over eight thousand."
"And how much was your father in debt?"
"Three-quarters of a million."
Faydra's voice was calm, but her words cut through the air. "Do the math C, you'd have to steal and sell over ninety cars to pay off that debt. Join us, and you could have it all back and more. Each race, the winning team walks away with four bitcoins. At over $100k a coin, that's serious cash. We split the winnings, so each racer gets $70,000, but the fastest gets $150,000. Win all six, and by race five, you'll be set."
Carrera paused, taking a slow breath as she mulled it over. "So, what's the catch?"
The laughter in the room died instantly. The atmosphere shifted, the playful energy evaporating as if someone had pulled a plug. El Gordo, turned silently and walked over to the garage door, closing it with a slow, deliberate motion. Another mechanic reached up and clicked off the TV, the bright screen flickering before cutting to black.
"Take a seat, C," Faydra said, gesturing toward a chair by the TV. "You're gonna want to sit down for this part."