Nighttime Los Angeles was something else. Hundreds of men and women packed the scene. The guys were all posturing and playing cool; the girls were showing off their assets in outfits that left less and less to the imagination.
The cocktail of cheap perfume, cigarette smoke, and sweat made Bella wrinkle her nose, but watching pair after pair of long legs strut past, she decided the trip was worth it.
"Bella, this is wrong. What are you looking at? How could you do this to Natasha!" The Divine Dragon perched on her shoulder, delivering a righteous lecture.
"I'm just looking around..." someone mumbled, guilty as charged.
The Divine Dragon swatted her head with a tiny claw. "Just looking around—with Eagle Vision on? You don't deserve Natasha. Unless..."
Another collector's-edition anime box set extorted out of her, Bella was finally allowed to resume her long-legged sightseeing.
Her earlier use of Eagle Vision had been for appraisal purposes. The results were underwhelming—plenty of beauties in the crowd, but a good number had gone under the knife, which cut her enjoyment by at least half.
Just as Bella was lamenting the severe quality deficit among the evening's female population, a tall, dark-haired woman with a ponytail entered her field of vision. Five foot nine, she made the two muscular men flanking her look almost short. Her vintage hoop earrings gave her an air of striking individuality.
Hands in her pockets, the woman cut through the crowd with unhurried confidence. People parted to let her pass.
She crossed the track with her two escorts, and somewhere along the way her eyes landed on Bella, whose gaze was wandering in all directions.
The woman paused, considered Bella for two seconds, then walked over.
"Alone?"
"Yep."
The dark-haired woman's expression was flat. "This isn't the kind of place for a good girl like you. Go home."
She delivered the warning and turned on her heel, walking away without a backward glance. Utterly unbothered.
"Heh. Personality. And those are natural legs, too. Not bad at all..."
Bella harbored no romantic intentions. She simply admired the woman's retreating silhouette with the detached appreciation of a connoisseur.
She didn't leave. As the Mentor of the Brotherhood who personally armed New York citizens on a daily basis, her world operated on a level so far above underground street racing that this scene couldn't have rattled her if it tried.
She had, however, tweaked her appearance just enough to avoid being mobbed by strangers.
The race began shortly. Four drivers: Shaw, a bald man named Dominic, an FBI agent named Brian, and a fourth—a black racer.
All four cars ran navigation software provided by the race organizers. As the deafening cheers of the crowd erupted like rolling thunder, the ten-second countdown began.
"Ten... nine... eight..."
Bella glanced at Shaw from a distance. Shaw's expression was the definition of indifference. Anyone who didn't know better would've assumed she was daydreaming.
Next to her, Dominic and Brian were generating sparks. Two old rivals—one a criminal, one a cop—and this wasn't their first time sharing a starting line.
Stubbornness burned in both their eyes. Each was certain the victory was his.
The nav software hit zero. The bikini girl on the virtual screen shouted "GO!" and the race was on.
No one had cleared the road. No one was directing traffic. Even at night, LA's streets were dense with vehicles. The four cars would have to weave through active traffic and blind corners with zero safety measures and reach the finish line. Braga only wanted the fastest driver for his deliveries. The winner would earn his attention. The losers were nothing.
Dominic's silver-gray Chevrolet Chevelle was first off the line. The seventies muscle car had been modified to an absurd degree, and with its monstrous power plant howling, he pulled a front-wheel wheelie off the starting mark and opened up a full car-length lead on the other three.
Brian's Nissan GT-R surged forward with over five hundred horsepower screaming under the hood, gluing him to Dominic's bumper.
The two cars ran nearly side by side, but before they could develop any real rivalry, Shaw's Mitsubishi EVO, which had been lagging slightly, closed the gap.
Shaw had never done this kind of underground racing. Her idea of a good time was hitting things, preferably with a vehicle. Actual competitive driving was a first. But while Dominic and Brian were still chasing the state of oneness between man and machine, Shaw didn't need to chase anything. She was already there.
For her, controlling a car was easier than controlling her own body. The two rivals could only watch as her Mitsubishi glided past them and steadily pulled away.
"Hey, boys!" Shaw's hand emerged from the window and gave a lazy wave. "I'll be waiting for you up ahead!"
It was practically a taunt. She plunged into the main arterial road, accelerating like a maniac through the streaming traffic.
Wrong-way driving, lane-splitting—the Mitsubishi never dropped speed. The other three drivers pushed harder, but the gap only widened.
"Damn it! She's insane!" Dominic was livid. His chiseled tough-guy face twisted with disbelief.
He was driving at his absolute limit. Going faster wasn't impossible, but past that threshold, his brain and reflexes simply couldn't keep up.
Watching the Mitsubishi's taillights shrink to pinpricks, he made a split-second decision and abandoned the designated route to take a shortcut. He refused to lose.
Brian, who'd been glued to his bumper the entire time, noticed the route change. A moment's thought, and he followed.
The circuit was only ten kilometers.
Their shortcut inspired Shaw. Oh? You can do that? Fine—she'd take one too.
Of the ten-kilometer course, Shaw covered barely seven before blazing across the finish line. Dominic and Brian were skilled, clever, sharp-eyed, and decisive, but they were simply a fraction slower on reaction time. Despite cutting every corner they could, they still crossed the line ten-plus seconds behind her. The fourth racer—the black driver—never even finished. He'd crashed out somewhere along the route.
Shaw won. She was the driver. Dominic and Brian left the underground racing venue looking like they'd swallowed something deeply unpleasant.
"Kid." Dominic narrowed his eyes, his lips curling into a sneer. His voice dripped with the absolute authority of a man who was king, who was the biggest, baddest, most untouchable force in any room. He spoke to Brian the way you'd scold a child. "Don't interfere with my business again. Or you'll regret it."
His swagger was impeccable. Brian—an actual federal agent—was visibly cowed by the sheer weight of the man's presence. Shame, then, that Shaw arrived with a squad of officers and ruined Dominic's performance.
Seven or eight guns trained on Dominic's bald head. The swaggering king stared daggers at Shaw.