The world exploded from the dank, confined darkness of the sewer into the shocking openness of the LS River channel. The late afternoon sun glared off the concrete banks. And there, roaring towards them like a red-metal angel, was Michael in the Benson truck, Paige a pale silhouette in the passenger seat.
"Don't worry, I gotcha."
Michael's voice in her ear was no longer just a command; it was a promise. The truck veered, its heavy-duty bullbars smashing into the front end of an oncoming police cruiser with a deafening shriek of tearing metal and shattering glass. "Keep driving - the bullbars on this truck should help us with the cops!"
Megan, Franklin, and Norm rode in a tight, terrified formation alongside the rumbling truck, a tiny, fast-moving herd protected by a stampeding beast.
"Look there, roadblock! Cut to the left bank of the river!" Franklin yelled.
"I should charge more for getting involved in police chases," Paige remarked dryly from the cab, a note of surreal humor in the chaos.
"Backup's here, watch your ass," Michael growled as more sirens wailed.
Franklin's bike was trailing smoke, a bullet hole in the fairing. "Serious, man, we can't take much more of this!"
The fear, the gunshots, the feeling of being hunted—it stripped away the last of Megan's cool-girl pretense. The word burst from her lips, raw and unfiltered by pride. "Daddy, hurry the fuck up and help us!" It was a child's cry for salvation, born of pure, adrenalized terror.
Michael didn't respond with words. He responded with action, the truck swerving again, a battering ram against the forces of law and order.
"Back across the other side, right!" Franklin directed, and they cut back across the shallow river, the bikes spraying up walls of water.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the pressure eased. The deafening sirens faded behind them. Megan dared a glance over her shoulder. No flashing red and blue. Just the hulking, battered Benson truck following them, a guardian monster.
Paige's sigh of relief was audible. "It looks good to me. Fine work, boss."
"Alright, we're clear of the cops for right now," Michael said, his voice thick with exertion and triumph. "Let's stop at the end of the river, and we'll get the bikes into the truck."
They pulled over near Rancho, the adrenaline crash making their hands shake as they killed the engines. The silence, after the roaring chase, was profound.
"Holy. Fucking. Hell," Norm breathed, pulling off his gas mask. His face was slick with sweat, his eyes wide with disbelief. He looked at the smoking, mud-spattered bikes, then at Megan. A huge, incredulous grin split his face. "We did it! We actually goddamn did it! And you, kid—you're a fucking natural! That jump! The mud! You called it all!"
Megan just leaned against her bike, her legs trembling. She pulled off her own mask, sucking in greedy lungfuls of free air. The praise from Norm, the grunt who'd almost killed himself, shouldn't have meant anything. But it did. A slow, wobbly smile broke through her shock. "Told you about the preload," she managed, her voice hoarse.
Franklin was already laughing, a giddy, relieved sound. "Aw, fuck, man. I thought I was goin' be stuck to that bike."
"Yeah, I thought you were gonna get stuck under a cop car," Michael shot back, climbing out of the truck, his own grin visible even from a distance.
They loaded the battered bikes into the truck, a team now bound by shared, violent success. The drive to Lester's lockup in Rancho was quieter, the euphoria settling into a buzzing, disbelieving hum.
At the lockup, Lester was waiting, a nervous sentinel with his cane. As they all piled out, grouping in the gathering twilight, the reality of their accomplishment hit fully.
"We did not just get away with that shit, did we?" Franklin asked, voicing the collective disbelief.
Michael clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You know what? I think we did."
"Hah, man!"
"Oh yeah! We did it, baby! We did it!" Michael roared, the sound echoing off the corrugated metal walls.
"Fuck!" Franklin yelled back, a pure exclamation of victory.
Norm just kept shaking his head, laughing to himself. "Unbelievable. Just unbelievable."
Megan didn't shout. She stood there, the itchy Bugstar suit clinging to her, the smell of gas, mud, and fear still on her. She felt a surge of something so potent it was almost painful—a fierce, blazing pride. She'd done it. She hadn't frozen. She hadn't crashed. She'd led them through hell and out the other side.
Paige, ever the professional, raised a metaphorical glass. "It was a good takedown - here's to the first of many."
As Lester directed them to stash the truck and Michael started organizing the dispersal, Megan hung back. The others peeled off with nods and fist bumps, the crew dissolving back into the city. But she waited, lingering by her father's side as Franklin drove away and Lester hobbled inside to call his gem guy.
Finally, Michael turned to her. He looked at her—really looked at her, still in the ridiculous red suit, her hair a mess, her eyes bright with spent adrenaline. He chuckled, a low, warm sound she hadn't heard in years.
"You," he said, shaking his head. "You were ice cold out there. When the shots popped off? Nothing. And that line through the tunnels… even Lest's impressed, and he's never impressed." He reached out and squeezed her shoulder, the same spot he'd patted awkwardly in her room, but this grip was firm, sure. "You did good, Meg. Really good."
The words were everything she'd wanted. She wanted to throw her arms around him. She wanted to jump up and down like she had in her bedroom. But Lester was nearby, and a crew member didn't do that. She swallowed hard, the emotion a thick knot in her throat. She just gave a sharp, proud nod, meeting his eyes. "Told you I could drive."
She turned and walked away before the tears of relief and triumph could well up, her head held high. Across the street, parked under a flickering streetlight, was her canary-yellow Elegy RH8. Of course. Uncle Lester, the meticulous planner, had thought of everything.
She slid into the driver's seat, the familiar interior a capsule of her old life. But she wasn't the same person who'd left it. She started the engine and drove towards Vinewood, the city lights coming on as night fell. The fear was gone, replaced by a deep, humming satisfaction. She'd been tested in fire and hadn't melted. She'd earned her four percent. And more than that, for the first time in her life, she'd genuinely, undeniably, earned her father's respect. The spoiled brat was gone. In her rearview mirror, fading into the Rancho night, was the driver.