Chapter 9 - Fire from the Exhaust
The orange line of melted steel expanded along the trailer's rear door seam. Sparks cascaded into the cargo bay like fiery rain. The heavy hydraulic latches gave way with a deafening metallic groan, and the heavy ramp dropped six inches, held only by its secondary chains. Through the gap, the blinding high-beams of a lifted Ford F-350 blared directly into the trailer, its massive steel winch bumper inches from the metal lip.
Behind the truck's windshield sat Grint, his face covered in white frostbite blisters, his eyes wild with venom.
""Get in the driver's seat!"" Leo screamed at Vance.
""Me?"" Vance shouted back over the roar of the wind. ""I pay people to drive!""
""I can't reach the pedals and the ignition switch at the same time!"" Leo countered, slamming the fuel cap shut and tossing the empty drum aside. ""Climb in! Push the red toggle on the center console, hold the throttle to thirty percent, and don't touch the clutch!""
Vance didn't argue. The billionaire threw his tailored frame into the molded carbon bucket seat. The interior of the hypercar glowed with crisp digital readouts.
Leo reached in through the driver’s side window, his small hand diving beneath the exposed steering column. He ripped away a wiring harness cover, finding the two braided ignition leads for the secondary fuel enrichment system—a racing modification meant for anti-lag launch control. He twisted them together with bare fingers.
""Hold your ears!"" Leo yelled.
Grint’s truck rammed the trailer ramp again. The secondary chains snapped. The heavy steel ramp slammed down onto the asphalt, sending a blinding rooster tail of sparks into the night. Grint gunned his engine, preparing to ram straight into the trailer’s belly.
""Now, Marcus! Floor it!""
Vance slammed his foot down.
The bespoke 4.0-liter V8 screamed to life. It wasn't the refined hum of a luxury machine; it was a demonic, raw shriek. Because the ignition timing was crossed and uncalibrated, unburnt fuel poured directly into the red-hot turbo manifolds.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three-foot plumes of blue and orange fire erupted from the twin high-mounted titanium exhaust tips, blasting straight out of the open back of the trailer. The concentrated blast of superheated flame and unburnt racing fuel engulfed the front grille of Grint’s truck.
The truck's plastic radiator instantly melted. The massive intake sucked in raw fire, starving the engine of oxygen. A second later, the front tires of the truck blew out from the extreme heat, shredding into smoking ribbons.
Grint lost all steering. The heavy pickup veered violently sideways at sixty miles per hour, flipping three times across the median in an explosion of glass, sparks, and twisted metal.
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Inside the trailer, the hypercar’s engine gave one final, horrific metallic screech—the valve finally seizing solid in its guide—before dying in a cloud of white smoke.
Leo let out a long breath, slumping against the car's door. ""Told you. Cylinder seven.""
