Chapter 2

The racers tore through the capital’s streets, wheels spinning out as many kilometers per hour as their engines would allow. Germania to Prague was the shortest section of the Axis Tour: an afternoon of driving on Grade A roads. Luka had navigated this leg so many times during training that he figured he could drive it with his eyes closed. He almost wanted to. Katsuo’s fender kept winking an annoying shot of sunlight at him. Catch me. Catch me if you can!

It was tempting bait. Verdammt tempting. But Luka knew better than to go for it.

Georg Rust didn’t.

They were just past Dresden, where the grandiose cityscape of palaces and churches faded into cherry tree orchards still a month shy of bloom, when Herr Rust edged into the frame of Luka’s goggles—pulling from third place into second. Luka didn’t try to block him, watching as the boy passed and fell into line behind the wink, wink, lure of Katsuo’s fender. Georg waited a few kilometers before he tried to overtake it. The move was sharp and fast, bold enough to succeed. He drew even with Katsuo, then passed him, rip-roaring down the autobahn.

Though the thought of falling behind made Luka itchy, his hand stayed steady on the throttle. Speed was important, but it was only a fraction of what it took to win this race. Victory was a complicated tapestry. Endurance, sabotage, knowing your competitors’ weaknesses and strengths, careful alliances, sheer luck—racers needed to know how to thread all these things together just to finish the Axis Tour. Much less reach Tokyo at the head of the pack. You couldn’t just barrel into the horizon like a Persian cat with its tail on fire and expect to win.

It seemed Georg Rust disagreed. The boy’s maneuvering skills were nothing to scoff at. Five times Katsuo tried to reclaim his lead, and each time the seventeen-year-old from Munich cut off the victor’s path with hair-raising precision, refusing to back down even when their motorcycles were centimeters from touching.

Georg was first over Prague’s checkpoint line. Katsuo second. Third—it pained Luka to see his name etched in that place. But, he reminded himself, there are 20,433 kilometers left to change that.

Herr Rust hadn’t even broken a sweat. The boy parked his bike and shucked off his helmet. A fine wave of sunburn marked the goggleless half of his face, and he was grinning through the pink. Katsuo’s face was red—more emotion than burn—as he stared at the back of Georg Rust’s fair head. It was a stare Luka knew well: stalking-tiger savvy. The stare he’d made the very grave mistake of ignoring.

1st: Georg Rust, 2 hours, 32 minutes, 14 seconds.

2nd: Tsuda Katsuo, 2 hours, 32 minutes, 16 seconds.

3rd: Luka Löwe, 2 hours, 32 minutes, 17 seconds.

4th: Kobi Yokuto, 2 hours, 32 minutes, 20 seconds.

5th: Felix Wolfe, 2 hours, 32 minutes, 24 seconds.

Hours had passed since the end of the leg, and Luka’s soup was long gone, but the road jitters had no intention of leaving. Luka always got them after a day of adrenaline: that feeling of nerves flayed open like electric wires, jolting his insides to go, go, go. Cigarettes usually helped. They were illegal and tasted like Scheisse, but they whispered to the fears inside him. Brought all the chaos and noise and striving down to a quiet hum.

Luka was on his third of the evening, filling his corner of the checkpoint’s dining area with rebellious haze. No one had come to reprimand him for the black-market smoke. No one ever did. It was one of the benefits of being a victor. Short of treason, Luka could do whatever the hell he wanted. Petty laws need not apply.

He smoked, he listened, he watched. You could tell a lot about a racer by the way he handled his road jitters. Herr Rust was all laughter and high spirits as he dug into his soup. Some of the younger German racers had swung by his table to congratulate him. Hans Muller, August Greiser, Walter Graf, Peter Schaub, Max Kammler. They clapped Georg on the back and asked him to recount the move for first. The story stretched a bit more with each telling. By the sixth version, Georg had nearly run Katsuo off the road while trying to claim his lead.

While Georg’s tales grew taller, Luka’s cigarette burned shorter. His eyes sought out Katsuo on the other side of the room. Like Rust, the victor had acquired a gathering. The boys around him were listening, nodding, and—Luka was willing to bet one of the cigarette packs he’d smuggled into his pannier—plotting. Katsuo kept shooting his glare across the converted warehouse, hitting the oblivious Herr Rust every time.

Let the competition take out the competition. Luka had better things to do.

Georg might have the ears of half the German roster, but he had no one to watch his back. Luka sat with his own back to the wall, exhaling a cool screen of smoke as he scanned the room.

It was slim pickings for allies this year. Language barriers and national loyalties prevented him from approaching any of the Japanese racers. Georg Rust was out of the question, and Luka had no use for the boys crowding around him. (If they were this awed by a simple pass, they wouldn’t have the nerves to carry out what Luka had planned.) Kurt Baer and Dirk Hermann were hunched over a table, voices dropped to scratching whispers, making plans of their own. Perhaps they’d want to form a triumvirate.…

There was one other racer: Felix, from the Nürburgring circuit. He too sat in a corner with his back to the wall. A lone Wolfe. The boy was slender. Had Mjölnir been tasked to paint him, the propaganda artist would’ve bulged out the jaw and beefed up the arms. The racer already looked half-statue due to the white-paste zinc oxide smeared—war paint style—from cheek to cheek. Sunblock.

Luka’s own rosy nose stung. A glance at the scoreboard reminded him that Herr Wolfe had finished fifth for the day.

A smart, fast loner without vanity issues. Just the sort of ally Luka was looking for. He stubbed his cigarette out on the tabletop and made his way across the room. Felix was still eating, though when he saw Luka was headed his way, his chewing slowed.

Luka chose a seat on the wall side of the table, where he could keep his eye on the rest of the racers, and left a chair between them. The Wolfe boy froze, palms flat against the table. Mjölnir would have definitely altered those hands, painting harder knuckles and fuller veins, pumped with adrenaline and Aryan blood. The artist would’ve squared off the nails, too.…

Felix slipped his hands under the table, saying nothing. His expression was stony under the cracked zinc oxide.

“You got any more of that makeup?”

At the last word the boy’s face moved. A frown.

“The sunblock,” Luka clarified. “Do you have any more of it?”

Felix didn’t answer. Silence wasn’t a response Luka was used to getting. Girls, press, fellow racers… Luka’s presence often sent these parties into a frenzy. But this boy, with his wordlessness and eyes unmet, acted as if Luka weren’t even there.

“Chatty, aren’t you? Look, you want my advice?”

This time Luka was graced with a glance. Mjölnir would have a field day with those eyes. They were a rare strain of blue. The light, sparkly kind you’d find under the case at a jeweler’s shop.

Luka pointed at Felix’s soup, steaming into open air. “You better keep your food covered, especially when Schweinehunds like me come sniffing around. There’s all manner of drugs floating around here that’ll have you diving headfirst into a toilet bowl for days.”

Felix hooked his arms around the bowl, pulled it closer to his person.

“Look,” Luka went on, “I know this is your first tour, so I’ll make it simple. You’re not going to win if you play the lone ranger. You need to form an alliance. Find someone to watch your soup bowl when you can’t. Someone to lend you zinc oxide when the sun gets too harsh.”

“The sunblock isn’t for you.” Felix’s words were brusque. Forceful enough to make his voice crack.

Rejecting a victor’s offer to team up? Felix Wolfe was either the most foolish racer in the Axis Tour, or the smartest.

Triumvirate it was. Luka looked toward Kurt Baer and Dirk Hermann. Dirk was in his third year of racing. Too experienced to pass up the offer Luka was about to make him.

“Your loss,” he informed Felix as he stood.

“You’re the one with the sunburn.” Herr Wolfe picked up his spoon with those twiggy fingers and dug back into his soup.