show meant popping the clutch and spinning the tires to create the squeals the crowd loved to hear and the smoke they wanted to see. But drifting against Chris meant that Kennin had to make a decision. Generally, Kennin preferred to be the chaser, staying behind the other car and pressing the lead driver harder and harder to perform until the driver lost either his control of the vehicle or his nerve.
But up against Chris in a 240 SX beater running nearly five hundred horsepower, it would be hard to apply much pressure. It was more likely that Chris would jump out to a lead and put on a major drifting show while Kennin struggled to keep up. The only choice Kennin had was to go into the lead and see what happened.
But even that wasn’t going to be easy. With all that horsepower, Chris was quickly five car lengths ahead when he started drifting into the first turn. Kennin should have drifted too, but with five car lengths between them, it wasn’t exactly tandem. Given all Mike Mercado had done for him, the least Kennin could do was put on a show.
While Chris drifted sideways through the first corner, Kennin shot low past him on the inside, coming out with a late drift in the straightaway while Chris whipped around and chased him.
Kennin had no doubt that Chris wasn’t happy to see him blitz that turn. To the untrained eye it probably looked like Kennin, in the smaller, slower car, was showing him up. Chris took the bait and charged after him, tucking the 240 SX in tight as they plowed through the next turn. With barely inches between the Corolla’s rear bumper and Chris’s front end, they whipped around the next corner, Kennin bracing himself and turning the wheel hard while heel-and-toeing to keep the rpms over four thousand.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Neilson and a uniformed cop standing at trackside, watching. Something about the way the detective’s arms were crossed and the steely gaze in his eyes confirmed what Kennin had already suspected—they were waiting for him. And this time Kennin wasn’t going to be able to talk his way out of it.
But that would be later. Right now, an unrelenting Chris Craven bore down on him, pushing harder and harder through each turn, forcing Kennin into more and more extreme drifts. As they went into the next corner, Kennin forced the front end of the Corolla deep into the curve. He could feel the rear end swing out, and the tires screamed, giving off a cloud of smoke so thick he could no longer see the car chasing him.
Suddenly the rear end slipped. In an instant Kennin knew he’d burned through the tire tread to the steel belt below. The Corolla started to spin. The engine stalled, and in no time Kennin was backward in a thick cloud of smoke. A split second later the bright red nose of Slide or Die came through the haze straight at him.
Crunck! Chris’s front bumper smashed into Kennin’s, punching the Corolla backward, the impact driving Kennin’s face into the steering wheel.
Both cars stopped on the track, facing each other. Kennin felt a bolt of pain across the bridge of his nose and warm moisture began to course over his lips. He had a feeling his nose was broken, but right now the pain wasn’t too bad. Meanwhile, the crowd in the stands had gone silent. The only sounds were Slide or Die’s idling engine and the clink and clatter of broken pieces of car body falling to the ground.
As the last of the smoke drifted away, Kennin stared through the windshield at Chris. They locked eyes, and suddenly Kennin had a feeling they were thinking the same thing. It was all about the show. And if the cars would still run, why not give it to them?
Kennin twisted the key in the ignition and restarted the Corolla. He jammed it into reverse, punched the accelerator, and whipped the nose around. Centrifugal forces sent more pieces of car skittering over the asphalt. Was it his imagination, or did he actually hear the crowd roar with delight? With the dented nose of the 240 SX tight on his tail, he gunned the Corolla into the next turn, the right front fender clanging and flapping like a bird with a broken wing.
This time Chris came around the outside, the front bumper of Slide or Die hanging at an angle like a crooked smile. They both careened through the next turn, the torque and g-forces causing the broken cars to groan and wobble. Something long and red flew past Kennin. It had to be Chris’s bumper.
Both cars powered out of the turn side by side while a couple of pit crew guys jumped onto the asphalt to clear away the debris. The next corner was a hairpin right. In unplanned synchronicity Kennin and Chris both feinted left and yanked hard on their wheels. Thwank! The momentum of the heavier 240 SX slammed it sideways into the Corolla. Kennin was jarred, but he somehow managed to keep control. He hated to think of what the left side of Slide or Die looked like. One thing was certain: Chris’s car was no longer a glossy, lacquered thing of beauty.
Out of the hairpin they swept together into a left, doors nearly touching. Running on the steel belts, the Corolla made sounds Kennin had never heard before, throwing showers of hot orange sparks. As they came out of the turn, Kennin knew the tires were in their death throes. Both cars were right in front of the stands. There was only one thing left to do.
He gunned the Corolla’s engine, veered off to the right, and then, in a pyrotechnic shower of sparks and smoke, snapped the car back into a 180. Pow! Pow! One after another the rear tires blew. Meanwhile, Chris took the hint and veered to the left and did the same. Bands of steel and chunks of black rubber flying, the cars screeched together and came to a stop, facing the direction from which they’d come.
The crowd went crazy. Kennin climbed out of the Corolla. What was left of the tires was still smoking, and shreds of steel bands glowed red hot. He pulled off his helmet and the head sock, damp and darkened with blood. Chris got out of Slide or Die.
“You okay?” he asked when he saw Kennin.
“Yeah. It’s just a little blood.”
Chris smiled. “Guess we gave them a show.”
“Looks like it,” said Kennin, aware that Detective Neilson was approaching with the uniformed officer, who was pulling a pair of black handcuffs off his belt.
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back,” Neilson said.
Kennin did as he was told.
“What’s going on?” Chris asked.
Neilson ignored him. “Kennin Burnett, I am arresting you for grand theft auto. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.”
Angelita and Tito arrived. “What’s this for?” Angelita asked.
“Something I didn’t do,” Kennin replied.
“Kennin, take my advice,” Neilson said. “Remain silent. How’s that nose?”
“Not sure.”
“We’ll have a look at it down at the station.”
The police officer slid his hand around Kennin’s arm just above the elbow and led him to a cruiser. Kennin glanced over his shoulder at Angelita. “Sorry about the car.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it now,” she said. “What should I do?”
“Wait for me,” Kennin said as the cop put him in the back of the cruiser.