(Last time...)

The two drivers who got out of their cars pushed their vehicles off to the inside of the track, they understandably didn’t want to continue. Soon the pace car backed up to the front of the field, and slowly they began moving again.

(Continuing...)

Shepherd shook his head, he had seen nasty crashes, and had even survived one of his own. But he had never seen cars explode like that before, and it shook him. The smell, the sight, it must have been similar to what veterans experienced in the war. He shook the thought out of his mind and tried to focus as the cars paced around slowly. The flagman held up his hand, 5 laps to go, and the pace car pulled off the track. Shepherd knew he was going to get overhauled again, his car was slow on the initial blast up to speed, but now everyone was back together again. Only 12 cars remained running at this point, 2 of whom were backmarkers. As they entered the second corner, everyone started accelerating again, everyone except Bleavins. As the top 5 roared off, the Bugatti faltered. Shepherd cursed, he hit the brakes and jerked the car to the right. Suddenly the Black Bugatti roared back into life, and the two cars rounded the corner to take the green flag side by side.

As they drove off into turn one, Shepherd knew something was wrong, the Bugatti hadn’t turned in at the correct place, and was now drifting up the race track towards him. The big car squeezed him to the wall, mere inches between Shepherd wheels and the wall. Either Bleavins didn’t realize he was there, or he was trying to kill him. Shepherd again hit the brakes, and tried to undercut the big car into the corner, but it again moved to block.

“You son of a bitch!” Hissed Shepherd, he knew exactly what was going on now. 4 laps to go, and he had to find a way past Bleavins, his life could very well depend on it. Again the Bugatti brake checked him, slowing down too much in the corner, allowing another driver to get alongside. Shepherd was boxed in, and coming into the last turn, he knew something was going to happen. Bleavins hammered the brakes, so hard he locked up the wheels. Shepherd took to the grass on the inside of the track. It was slippery, wet from the fire, but he had no choice. The other car ended up tangling with the Bugatti, and Shepherd barely managed to squeeze past as he skidded back onto the track. The crowd was on their feet cheering, they were loving this. All eyes were on the plucky prototype car, dueling it out with the mysterious Bugatti.

3 Laps to go, and Bleavins now out for blood came in hard and fast. Tires squealed as he rammed the back of Shepherd's car. Shepherd, used to his crazy contraptions, held the slide. Another car behind the Bugatti tried to pass, but Bleavins spun the wheel and smashed him into the wall. All subtlety had gone out the window, Bleavins was going to keep Shepherd from beating him, even if it meant killing him. He dove into the corner again, this time Missing the back of the prototype car. The leaders of the race had actually caught up to the rear of the field, unaware of what was happening, one attempted to pass Bleavins as he pulled the car down from the track. Bleavins hit his back right wheel and sent him nose first into the concrete.

The race officials had seen enough, they waved the red flag trying to stop the race again, but no one seemed to obey. Bleavins blocked the track with his yacht in a car and waited. As Shepherd came around again, he slammed on the brakes. He was looking down the barrel of a .45 colt. Bullets pounded into his car, one hitting the front left tire and another hitting his leg. The car spun into the grass. Shepherd stood on the throttle, and spun his car around the pace car. Now going against the flow of traffic, he gunned for the tunnel that marked the stadium’s exit. The entire stadium had descended into chaos. Men, women and children ran for their lives, as some people jumped the wall and onto the track to stop Bleavins. It was too late, he spun his car around and chased after Shephard.

The prototype car jumped down the ramp leading to the parking lot. The motor was lugging in high gear but Shepherd couldn’t move his left leg to step on the clutch. He wheeled the car right, trying to stay off the blown tire, and accelerated through the parking lot. Bleavins, or whatever his name was, slid out behind him. A couple more gunshots rang out hitting parked cars, Shepherd watched the glass cracked and shatter as he passed. He tried to turn the car right, out onto the road, but the wheel was down to the rim now. Shooting sparks, he crashed into the ticket booth. Desperately, Shepherd tried to climb out of the car and run, but the second he came down on his leg, he collapsed screaming in pain. The Bugatti skidded to a stop, the door opened and Bleavins stepped out.

“You’re a damn good driver kid…” He said loading a new magazine in his handgun. “but not good enough.” He leveled the gun with Shepherd’s head, but the sound of an engine that wasn’t his caught his attention. He looked left just in time for his legs to get blown out from underneath of him by a red sports car. His face hit the windshield and skidded down the hood as McClaire slammed on the brakes. The man tumbled to the ground and watched as she floored the accelerator again. The Ace smashed Bleavins between itself and a parked car, his head and upper body flapping on the hood. McClaire got out, he had dropped the gun and it laid right beside her tire on the road.

“Looking for this?” She hissed, seeing him reach for it, and kicked it away.

“You’ll pay for this bitch! You don’t know who you're messing with!” Bleavins croaked, as he coughed up blood. McClaire ignored him and went to check on Shepherd.

“You okay kid?” He was too shocked to say anything. McClaire used Shepherd’s mask and her boot laces to stop the bleeding as police and medics descended on the scene. Bleavins was taken into custody, and Shepherd was taken to hospital.

The Appalachian Grand Prix was all over the headlines across America, but renamed ironically as the Ohio River Shootout. Tony Bleavins turned out to be Tony Angilo, a wheelman wanted for murder in three states. He would survive his injuries, but mysteriously die in police custody a few days later to a heart attack. Questions about the mob's involvement in racing surrounded the sport, namely these small town gigs with little to nothing in the way of rules. Clearly, there was a need for a sanctioning body much like what happened with NASCAR, and soon the American Open-Wheeled Racing Association was formed in Indianapolis, home to the world famous 500 mile contest.

The two drivers involved in the lap 21 accident would survive their injuries. Both heard about what happened through hospital staff, and despite their burns, wanted to talk to Shepherd about what happened. They barely knew the kid, let alone why someone would be trying so hard to kill him. Shepherd would be released the same day, his leg wrapped up and on crutches. Without barely a penny to his name, he headed for the train station to see if he could sneak on something heading for Kentucky. However, before he could get out of the Hospital, McClaire found him.

“Look... I’m sorry about your car…” He said instinctively.

“Ha, you should be… Don’t worry, it’s all fixable. I guess the same could be said for you huh?” McClaire asked and Shepherd nodded.

“A few weeks at least, that's what they told me. I promise, after I figure out something to pay you back…”

“Haha. Come on, let’s take a ride. It’s too busy in here.” A few moments later, Shepherd was in the passenger seat of McClaires Ace, it’s front end mildly damaged from saving his life.

“You know they’ll be coming after you now? After whacking that dude?”

“He’s alive, barely, but don’t worry about me, I have my ways of handling them!” She chirped starting the Ace’s engine. Slowly and smoothly she pulled out and onto the road. They drove in silence for a little while heading out of town on US 23, until McClaire finally spoke…

“Everyone makes mistakes in life, the question is how we learn from them, yeah?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“You’re young Jackie, way too young to be making decisions like you are. I was there too at one point in my life, so I know how you feel...”

“That’s why you loaned me your car?” Shepherd assumed.

“I loaned you my car so you’d live long enough we could have this conversation. How much do you owe the Mob?” She asked.

“A few thousand…” Shepherd responded being coy about the actual number.

“A few? Exactly how much Shephy…”

“About $8000, a hint more I think, and that was before today.”

“Damn, that’s a lot of money, you got one hell of a silver tongue.”

“I had a lot of dreams.” Shepherd sighed leaning back. “I grew up poor in Brooklin, mother worked a brothel and didn’t know who my dad was. She got sick in 1952, died in 53, and I fell in with the wrong group. I thought they were going to make me a “made man”, so I borrowed shit I couldn’t pay back, and lived in places I couldn’t afford. Tried to live to their standards and fit in, you know? Instead they wanted to break me down into some sort of glorified servant, to take the fall for some fuck head I didn’t know, so I took what money I could get and ran.”

“Huh.” Was McClaire’s only response. “How did you get into racing?”

“It was my escape. When you're racing, you could just ignore everything else in life. If you didn’t, you died and it wouldn’t be your problem anymore.”

“That's Morbid.” McClaire said.

“I got good at it, at least somewhat… Now it’s all I know how to do.”

“So would you stop racing? If given the chance?”

“I don’t know, would you? You’re the only broad I know that drives a race car, and I’m sure you have your reasons like me, so would you quit and go back to a normal life if you could? He asked.

“Ha, you got me there.” She sighed “Okay Shepherd, I’ll make you another deal. I get 50% of every dollar you earn from driving for the rest of your life. That means racing, taxi driving, delivering pizzas, whatever. In exchange, I’ll get ahold of my contacts, and pay off your debts.”

“Are you serious?

“Dead serious, and you're going to help fix my car too, both of them.” she said pointing to the hood flapping slightly in the wind as the rolled along.

“Absolutely, but why? Why me?” Shepherd said, his voice shaky.

“Because I made a mistake a long time ago too, one that money can’t fix, and I don’t want you to end up in the same sort of situation.” McClaire told Shepherd. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Just like with the Mob, it sounded too good to be true, but what else was he going to do? After all, McClaire had saved his life.

“You're an angel... Miss McClaire.” He said, starting to cry.

“No, I’m not… I just believe no one should become one for the things they did in their past.” She too shed a tear, she could practically feel the cold metal of the sword on her throat.

“Oh, one more thing…” She said, shaking the memory out of her head. “In the glove compartment, there’s an envelope. The race’s organizers would rather you not talk to the press about what happened.” Shepherd pulled out the envelope, inside was $500.

“Hmp, no problem.” he muttered. It was a pathetic attempt at a bribe, but it would be enough to get him home and lay low for a while.