Thirteen Hours till Sunrise Part 2: From Dusk till Dawn
Bon Temps, Tanaara
Dusk
Dark green eyes gazed out over the rims of dark sunglasses. Maui Jim Bayfronts perched on the nose of the observer, not more than a quarter mile from the beach, and elevated on a low hill. His right arm hung down by his side, clutching a half empty green bottle, the Dos Equis label drenched in condensation. The observer leaned back in the wooden lounge chair, his feet kicked up on a foot stool, cheap flip flops lying on the ground beside it. His left hand came up from the bathing suit and brushed back the shorter cut black hair. Robert had no idea retirement, if you could call it that at all, would be so nice.
In front of him was the view of a lifetime. The Tanaaran coastal city of Bon Temps was everything that Northampton had been, and more. The view coming in from the water reminded him of trips to Miami from the days when he lived in the US. Casinos ranging from the semi gimmicky Las Vegas style theme tables to those rivaling the best of Monaco dotted the beach, attached to respective hotels. Even this early in the night, the music from the night clubs rose into still air, the only breeze a light brush off the ocean. The beaches were both clearing and filling at the same time, the young starlets and who’s who leaving to clean up for the clubs and bars, with older adults and college students moved in for beach parties and bon fires. Coming out of the cliffs, the distinct sound of turbo four and six cylinder motors bounced off cliffs as one of the local clubs attacked the twisty roads. The traffic on the main road through Bon Temps visibly was increasing.
Robert didn’t miss the pollution that was prevalent in Northampton but missing here. Northampton had had an in city industrial district that, while making for fun underground party locations, had made the air a slight irritant. Nor did he miss the ever prevalent police force, their lightly modified 5 Series BMWs rolling along the interstates and side roads, wasting their time looking for racers and those driving arguably too fast. But the Imitoran did miss a few of the clubs that had been local to Imitora, and a few choice citizens of his old home. Still, he had fully adopted Tanaara as his new home, and his feet nudged against the stack of papers sitting on the foot rest. An importation license was the final bit of paper work to file, and he’d be ready for his newest business venture. That wasn’t to say that the three cars, two Ferraris and a Carrera GT, were not any less customer cars than the ones to come. Nor did it mean the two Z race cars, Robert’s big single E46, or the shop’s twin’d M6 were not RPM vehicles either.
Rogue Performance Motorsports. RPM. It was what he had wanted NIAS to be, a more exclusive specialty shop, putting out the best work, and not just installations of distributed parts. However, Northampton Import Automotive Specialists grew too fast, out of control of Hoot and Robert’s desires. So it was sold off, and brought along Black Owl. It too, wasn’t quite what Robert wanted, far too small and specialized, and the Imitoran shut it down after the third run.
The runs. They had been what it was all about, hadn’t they? Robert lazily counted the cars rolling out of one of the beaches parking lot, enjoying the warm salt air as it washed over him, another light breeze pushing the scent of the water out to his porch. He had forgotten how much he had loved the smell of the ocean. No, it was bigger than just the driving. Wasn’t it?
His eyes dropped down to the rear drive way of the house, the main drive. Inside the garage was his own Z4, an M coupe version, sitting on a lift, hood open and engine exposed. It was almost finished, it just needed a few tugs on the fender and some other body fixes to fit the wheels and suspension, and the ridge racer would be complete. The E46, his big end race car that had already taken a few names in Bon Temps at the 60-150 races, was still at the as of yet unopened shop, sitting in the large, fifty car underground garage. Tucked in between the wall of the garage and the MZ4 was his bike, a 2009 S1000RR in factory racing livery. Following the trend, behind the two near dedicated race vehicles were another pair of Munich’s finest, an E60 M5 and E92 M3. The M5 was Robert’s daily driven car, and faster than most weekend warriors after he had finished working on it. The M3 was to be a new test mule for a stage program similar to the one he would offer for the M5 once Rogue was open. However, the M3 had also been his latest obsession, and had hardly driven the M5 in the past few weeks after picking up the Jerez Black coupe.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
The voice belonged to Victoria Reynolds, one of the first hires for Rogue Performance. The native Tanaaran was just over 25, and a few rumors had been floating around that she and Robert had been involved, or still was, though nothing had come up to prove or disprove the rumor. She pushed back her dark brown hair, and held out her hand, another dark green bottle to swap out the now empty one in his hand. He took it, and placed it on a table next to the chair.
“You're what, 25?”
“Yeah,” the young brunette replied. She laid out on another lounge chair, catching the last few minutes of the sun to work on her tan. “26 in four weeks.”
Robert nodded. “So you are too young then, missed out on the Imitoran Runs.”
Victoria nodded. “Yeah, by a few years for the last Players Run. Got the DVD, though, and the Thirteen hour race. That looked like a fun one.”
“It was,” he said under his breath. It could all be traced back to that one race. Everything. The more he thought about it, the more he found that everything that had happened to him, to Imitora, could be followed back to that one race. Alliances, wars, trade, technological development, lives changed, lives ended, new lives brought into the world.
“I’ve been on a few here, when it wasn’t interfering with school,” she said, brushing a stray hair from her face. The young woman was Tanaaran, born and raised, and had been picked up for RPM not just because of her beauty, but because of her intelligence. She had been in the top quarter of her class in business school, and Robert’s offer of an obnoxious weekly pay with a low intensity yet fun job was irresistible. That, and he offered to pay off her student loans. After the Tanaaran monies owed pay out to the last surviving Imitorans, and the money made from selling off his last business, it wasn’t like he was hurting for money.
“Yeah. Gotta get yourself on a good team, and a good car. It’s all I did in most of my free time.” Fortier consulted the Dos Equis bottle, picking it up and swirling it around before taking a long pull. “But you gotta know what you are racing for.”
“I was a navigator on one of the last runs, my sis and I took her Audi S6. Made good time, but it was a money race.”
Robert nodded. “Money races are fun, but you gotta be really racing for something good.”
“Like?” she asked, standing up from the lounge. The sun had finally dipped below the horizon, and the night air would soon turn cool. She retreated inside, returning out with a light jacket covering her bikini top and board shorts.
“Bragging rights.”
Northampton, Imitora
You know what I mean. Something big. Shit, when was the last time we drove to Jameston?
Fuck man, dont tell me you wanna make that long ass drive down and back. What is it, 16 hours round trip? Entire fucking day just for a few hours of fun. Nah.
Well, it summer here. Sun down is at 8:00, sun up at 9:00. That’s what, thirteen hours?
Yeah, I fucking hate that number too.
So, let’s make the drive in thirteen hours.
Hoot was gone now, as were most of the racers from that night. Still, the memories from that night were clear. Robert was amazed at how much thirteen hours could change a person. He exhaled slowly, taking in the entire world in front of him, looking out over the water. Suddenly, Robert pushed himself up from the chair, and pushed the Maui Jims up his nose.
“Go home, get changed. Call up Ryan, Azrayl, some of the others. Tell them to be at the shop in two hours.”
Victoria stood as Robert did, following him back at the house. “What’s going on?”
“Just get them there. McManus, for sure,” he said, mentioning the only other surviving Imitoran that he had known personally. “Azrayl, too, we’ll need him. Maybe Scott and Blake, too.”
Victoria nodded, pulling a Blackberry out of her jacket pocket and bringing up the text application. Soon the initial message was out, with a promise to call all with more details. Robert disappeared into the main bathroom and the sound of the shower starting up was heard.
“You be there too,” he called out, shutting the door. He could just hear the sound of his own phone buzzing on the bedside table with incoming texts.
Just two hours later, Victoria was leaning against her car, the red Audi RS4 glistening under one of the parking garage lights at the Rogue Performance Motorsports building. Next to her was a dark titanium Mercedes CL65 AMG, the motor still running, the twin turbo V12 burbling quietly as it cooled.
An oddly dressed, and equally odd looking man stuck his head out from the passenger seat of the Benz.
“Yo, Vicky, what are we doing here again?”
The girl shrugged, stuffing her hands into the pockets on the tight fitting black leather pants. A snug fitting white Affliction tee showed off her frame underneath a short cropped brown leather jacket. She had done her hair up, and a pair of Ray Bans hung from her shirt line.
“Stuff it Azz,” the driver of the AMG said, walking over from a Red Ferrari. Ryan McManus, one of the few handful of Imitorans, and one of the many who had relocated to Tanaara, had been checking out his handy work on the Ferrari he had been working on earlier. The exhaust was settling in nicely. “If Robert called us in from having a good time, I can promise you it’s worth it.”
“You Imitorans and having a good time all the time.” Azrayl chuckled. His real name was Alex Cohen Silverstein, and he spent what time he wasn’t manipulating car ECUs spinning at some of the local psi trance clubs.
The former sniper, and underground Tanaaran hero for his participation in the coup, started towards the DJ, before the sound of a high revving vee-eight punched through the garage. The gate at the far end slid up, and the Jerez Black M3 rolled down the ramp and towards the other drivers. In the fluorescent light, the unique black paint looked an almost impossibly dark bluish purple, the recent detail giving the paint a near liquid look. The sound of the Eisenmann race exhaust, hooked up to an Active Autowerke’s signature X Pipe echoed loudly off the garage walls when Robert punched the gas, the tires chirping.
He lifted, and let the car idle into a spot. Robert opened the door without killing the car, and more vocal mix of Paul Van Dyk’s Crush could be heard over the sound system.
“Good track,” Azrayl said, stepping out of the Benz.
Robert nodded, and looked back over his shoulder as a multi colored Honda Repsol rolled down the ramp. The bike too rolled slowly up to the other drivers, and the rider killed the ignition. Scott pulled off his helmet, and eyed the M3.
“Crap. I was hoping for the ess one kay. I still wanna shot at that thing in the canyons.
Robert shook his head. “Soon enough. I got something bigger planned,” he said, shaking his head. The Imitoran now wore a designer tee shirt with some sort of graphic on it, and a pair of comfortable fitting jeans that hung down just past the tops of his Piloti driving shoes. He was still under shaven, but he had attempted to comb his hair this time.
“Carnival is about what, Azzy? Distance wise?”
Azrayl had grown up in Carnival and it was there he learned how to spin. He had made the drive a few times before. It was a much better flight. “Uh, as the crow flies just a hair over fifteen hundred. Why?”
Robert did the math quickly in his head. Though he had always been more of a political and business thinker, he could still do some decent math when it was car related.
“Any of you up for a drive?”
Two Weeks Later
TanItallia Italian Restaurant
Carnival, Tanaara
Midnight
A light fog had settled over the parking lot, not enough to obscure vision, but enough to give an other worldly feel. It rested just above ankle level, and brought an eerie feeling to the all but empty parking lot in front of the restaurant. In three spots closest to the front door, four vehicles sat, ticking as they cooled off from their most recent drive. A space grey M5 took the center spot, heat still emanating from under the hood even an hour after it had been shut off. On its left was a liquid black Mercedes Benz CLS63 AMG, its tires, though brand new, already showing noticeable tread wear. On the right were two sport bikes in a single space, a Honda CBR1000RR with a large nitrous tank hanging underneath the straight cut exhaust, and a black ZX-6R Monster Energy.
Inside the restaurant, Robert and his small group occupied a large circular table, loaded with food. The service was family style, so instead of individual meals, there were two large bowls of pasta with a pot of sauce, and a dish with a pesto chicken sitting in the center. The group was working on its third bottle of wine.
In between bites, Azrayl looked over at Fortier, and shook his head. “It’s fast. It’s too damned fast for a sedan. It shouldn’t be able to move like that.”
Robert washed down a bite of chicken with another swig of the house wine. “Well,” he countered, “it’s not too hard to believe I could pull your bike. It’s a 600cc, and it isn’t the most aerodynamic. It only takes about five fifty to five seventy five to be able to pull a six hundred bike. On the spray and cut outs, I’m easily putting down six twenty to six thirty,” he said, referring to the M5.
Scott spoke up next, contemplating a bread stick. “And no offense bro, but you’re a shitty rider.”
Scott and Azrayl were two of the many Tanaaran workers at the shop, and could be easily considered the two top Tanaaran employees. Azrayl had been one of the top hackers for the TMI when he left to pursue private interests. Robert had found him at a party the Tanaaran was DJing, and offered him the job to get in and do the ECU tuning. With the increasing complexity of ECUs the manufacturers were using, he wanted someone who could handle cars well, but more importantly get into tight systems. Scott Hammond had been in the Tanaaran military when he met McManus at a joint regional military training exercise. The two had become quick friends, both as their respective team’s snipers, and had stayed in contact. Scott had also spent plenty of time in Imitora in the cross country races and rallies, and had made quite an impression with his 2005 Repsol CBR. Victoria had gone along as well, riding with Robert, memorizing the route.
A good hour had passed, the group still joking and commenting on different situations as they ate, before Robert brought up the underlying subject, and reason for being in Carnival.
“So, we’ve done the drive five times now. We have a handful of side routes to match the main course. We know the traffic. What else do we know?”
Victoria spoke up first. “Under thirteen is a no go. Won’t happen, just not enough time or room. Hell, it takes thirteen just to get one way.”
“Bikes that push it can handle traffic,” McManus spoke next, playing absent mindedly with the key to his brand new CLS. “But there are some parts where the cars are just gonna have to back route it to get in.”
Scott nodded. “Hell, under thirteen for a bike would be a close call. The cars, if you guys can do it in fifteen or less, it would be amazing.”
Robert nodded. “So, we know doing a thirteen hour round trip run won’t happen. We’d have to average well over two hundred the entire way, and we know that just isn’t possible. A few sprints, yes, but average? No. So we make it one way. Bon Temps to Carnival, in thirteen hours. We leave at dusk, that will give us just enough time to hit it before dawn. We’ll set up a big party at the finish line, get a club and rent it out. Should be pretty good. Thirteen hours, sun down to sun up, to go 1500 miles. Everyone good?”
All the others at the table nodded. As a fore though, McManus made a mental note to be sure to call his lawyer when he got home, just to be safe.
“Alright then.” Robert paused to observe the table, taking in the world as he saw it. He thought back to the first run, the very first, and to this day, only Thirteen Hours Till Sunrise race.
It seemed like such a good idea at the time.
“Send out the invitations.”
OOC: This thread is a continuation of an RP I ran several years ago. This thread is closed, and if you have not received a telegram regarding your involvement, please do not assume its ok for you to post. If you would like to be involved, and did not receive a notice, then please contact me via telegram and we will discuss your involvement. Thank you.
OOC: LInk to Bon Temps page embedded within... 
Bon Temps glowed in the wan midday light of high winter. The rolling hills of the Sierra Lune gleamed a patchwork of deep evergreen and dark gold - the groves of Tanaaran Yggdrasil which often grew five hundred feet tall, dark and lush, in contrast the bare brown limbs of walnut, red oak, willow, pecan, and the gold of gamma and pampas grass.
Here and there, widely separated towers pierced the sky, rising past even the Tanaaran Yggdrasil's. Some -the new ones- reaching over a mile in height, but those were but a handful. Most, as Tanaarans preferred, hid leaving the vistas unmarred. But the day was alive as the residents, close to twenty million strong, spread out over two hundred and fifty thousand square miles of megalopolis.
The Kadeena Station, close to Point Zephyr Military Air Station at the far south end of Bon Temps, was bustling with flights and liftoffs, as it was now- of-days a combination and airport and spaceport.
An Antonov 225 in private livery touched down with surprising grace for such a massive airplane and shortly there after rolled into a hanger just big enough to hold one of the largest air transports about.
A few hours later a small convoy rolled north.
The driver and navigator would be arriving later, as it was their honeymoon.
Leaning on a rail that had been placed by the harbour, the man looked out over the many fishing boats that were moored to the wooden piers. Two fishermen were busy repairing their nets by their boat, as the sun slowly went down behind the horizon. Several hundred meters to his right, the rich and famous in this local town relaxed on their expensive yachts. On the boulevard that bordered the yachting club, lots of people resided on the open air terraces of the local restaurants, Some simply admiring the undergoing sun, others enjoying their three courses, often served in no less than three to four hours. Not due to the inability of the chef to cook his food quickly enough, but simply because the people here liked to enjoy life and take it slowly.
Giancarlo Moretti liked going to this town. It was only several kilometres away from the more tourist-minded city of Venezia, which was busier than ever before since shipping had increased, thanks to the recent worldwide success of one of the more prominent Van Luxemburger automobile manufacturers. Perhaps it was because Giancarlo was somewhat patriotic, that he had bought one of the cars of that brand. Or perhaps it was because he was employed by them, in one way or another.
As he turned around and walked back to the coastal road, where his car had been parked on one of the many parkings by the side of the intercoastal lifeline, and looked back to admire the view once more. Then, he looked at the Monteluci Ducareale that waited for him, which had been painted in a traditional Grigio Vela lacquer. The driver’s door was opened, as if it was inviting him to take her for a spin.
As he got back behind the wheel again, he quickly admired the choice of colours he had made for the interior. He was still in love with the Pelle Timone/Wengé combination, and of course with the engine sound of the powerful V12 that powered his car forwards. As he closed the door, he already pushed the clutch and started the engine, which produced an aggressive roar as it came to live.
Now, the interested reader would have noticed something – A V12 powered Ducareale, undoubtedly a SFS, had no clutch, seeing they all had semi-automatic gearboxes. And this was true, for most cars, but did not take into account that Giancarlo Moretti was in fact the head of the Lepanto workshops in Venezia, where the V12 of the Ducareale had been born. After this particular car had been assembled, it was returned to the Lepanto workshops, as ordered by Giancarlo, and then modified somewhat to his own likings. The 7-speed semi-auto offered by Monteluci was swapped for the 6-speed manual that was installed by Lepanto in their 650 Moiano, which made use of the same engine. Furthermore, the SEM1 suspension of the Ducareale had received a new configuration file, meaning it would behave like the very same 650 Moiano. Slightly uprated brakes from the Moiano, still the size of entire pizzas, and a new stainless steel exhaust system, finished the slight modifications made by Moretti and his team of mechanics.
Checking his mirrors before reversing out of his parking place, Giancarlo noticed the white envelope on the passenger seat. Suddenly, he realised that he had forgotten to check his mail, as he had planned to. He moved the stick back to neutral and moved the key in the ignition back to shut down the engine, but leaving all electrics on, before picking up the envelopes.
Amongst them were some electricity bills, a ticket he received for driving too fast on the – how surprising- Via Lepanto, and a letter which had undoubtedly been delivered by airmail, looking at the colourful envelope. While opening the envelope with the help of his finger, he noticed that the letter came from Tanaara, and that the letter was written by a man named Robert Fortier. He had heard that name before, somewhere.
Several minutes later, he read the letter once again. It was not so much an actual letter, it was more of an invitation. To a race, nonetheless. Moretti had participated in such road rallies before, and, well yes, he enjoyed them. But to travel to Tanaara for one?
Of course, he had experience with rallies in the regular Van Luxemburger scene. But here, in the Grand Duchy, the police did little to intervene in the high-speed trips of the gentlemen in their high-powered sportscars, since they kept themselves to the traffic regulations for most of the time, and speed-related violations were not really enforced by the strong arm of the law. No, the Autobahnpolizei sometimes even did a short sprint together with the gentlemen racers, just for laughs. Their Maseratis, Porsches, Montelucis, and everything else European, Japanese or Van Luxemburger that was powerful enough to serve with the motorway cops, were perfectly capable of doing that. However, they were more focused on apprehending the drugs runners that were ubiquitous in the southern regions, and enforcing traffic regulations on the kids that thought that they could participate in the next part of The Fast and the Furious.
But, considering it had been a while since Moretti had last participated in one of these trips, he would take part in this. He would have to look up some things about the Tanaaran law enforcement on the Internet, but he would participate.
Some days later, Tanaara
Walking with a luggage trolley, Giancarlo looked out over the aircraft parking, and waited until his vehicle would actually be unloaded from Lepanto’s Monteluci C350 cargo plane. The plane was in Tanaara anyways to unload a Lepanto for a customer there anyways, so why would he ship in his Monteluci if he could do it the easy way?
Some minutes later, the Ducareale rolled down the aircraft’s cargo ramp, and Giancarlo loaded his luggage into the luxury saloon. Seconds later, he got into the car’s driver seat, started the engine, and drove off.
Only several hours later, Giancarlo parked his car again, this time outside the building occupied by Rogue Performance Motorsports.
He'd always had a passion for Chevys. Sure, he could afford anything mounted on whatever number of wheels, treads, skis, what have you, but classic American styling always won out over European pedigree. He owned two, one 1964 Impala that could only be described by the term 'Pimp', the second a 1976 Camaro SS. It was his project, his baby, his money pit in some cases, but RPM had made it a reality. Starting with bone stock, they'd done little to the exterior...
From the outside, the car looked no more special than any other 1976 Camaro SS. Except for the raised cowl induction hood, no one in their right mind would think anything of the old muscle machine.
Under the hood, however, is a totally different story. No one can argue that the good old fashioned carburated motors had their time and place in history. And yes, now a days, a good LSx motor would be perfectly appropriate for this. However, when running cross country, it must be done in style. Sitting in the engine bay (with a little help from a sledge hammer) is a Stonewall Motorsports 396 cubic inch V8. Each custom built motor is capable of a rather impressive 520whp and an equally impressive 514ftlbs of torque. The exhaust gas spits out a custom set of Hooker headers into a set of exhaust dumps that release the burnt fuel into the atmosphere just aft of the front axle. The Holley 4150 street power carburetor has been tuned perfectly to fit the nature of the race, and at the request of the owner, a little bit of the giggle gas was added in the form of a 150 horsepower shot of nitrous. He'd seen it used on everything from the movies to street bikes and figured more speed was never a bad thing.
The power is put to the rear wheels via a Richmond T-10 Four Speed transmission, hooked up to a 12 bolt Moser rear end. The actual gearing itself was unknown to him, all the builders at Stonewall would tell them is that "Ya know, those Corvette guys sure learned alot about gearing on the Muslanne straight at LeMans." It is doubtful if the aerodynamics or tires will allow it, but it can be safely assumed that the engine and transmission are able to see something well above the 150 mark, nearing that elusive second century.
The suspension is built up from the Global West and KYB parts bin, including Global West control arms and coils, with KYB shocks. Wheels are Polished American Racing Torq Thrusts wrapped with BF Goodrich Rubber.
Of course, it had to have all the trick goodies. Street slicks on the back end tucked up real nice, lavishly comfy interior, line locks for super easy drift and burnout action, and the like. All in all, he'd been really pleased with the massive amount of cash he'd dumped into the old Chevy. 'Wealthy' didn't describe his bank accounts, and 'lavish' wasn't quite the word for his lifestyle, but Jackson Bray didn't think they'd ever appreciate his use of the term 'Nigga Rich' seeing as he was of the Caucasian persuasion. Ah well, he had more than enough money to shut up Al Sharpton. Jack Bray was indeed 'Nigga Rich'.
A house in Malibu, another in Santa Monica, a cheatu in Colorado, a penthouse in New York, and finally a summertime retreat in the Grand Caymans. Getting to all those living establishments was a pain without your own personal aircraft, and Jack had made sure he had a private Gulfstream on hand to take him where-ever he might want to go. How did he make this sort of money, you ask? If he told you, he'd have to kill you. All he'd say was that he'd done a lot of investing in Russian imports, which was a fancy way of saying he was well-connected within the Russian Mafia. No, he wasn't Russian. The Kentucky boy was one of two sons of the Bray family, and the other sibling wasn't doing too bad either. Dekker didn't have Jack's expensive tastes, but then again Jack didn't have a money-hungry ex-wife and child support payments.
After he'd recieved his vehicle back from RPM's home office in Tanaara, Jack had recieved a letter informing him of a little contest the custom shop was going to be hosting. It wasn't like he had anything better to do, so how could he refuse?
He'd bought a C-130 cargo plane for the exact purpose of getting his baby over the oceans to the starting point. Riding for hours in a military aircraft wasn't a new thing for him, however. The Russians hadn't picked him up because of his snazzy sense of fashion. Jackson was a pistol prodigy, the product of excellent genetics and top-of-the-line military training. After a short stint with the US Army's CAG (Delta Force), he'd taken up the family business of private sector (read: mercenary) employment. He'd chewed dirt in all the hotspots; Africa, the Eastern Bloc, South America, and a lot of domestic work for his less-than-legal ex-KGB friends. He'd saved, invested, and most important of all, hired a bad-ass stock broker to handle his finances and his alone. It wasn't cheap, but the results spoke for themselves. Now he owned car lots, hotels, casinos, strip clubs, and a record label: Hitman Records Inc.
The ride had been made a lot easier through a large dose of Ambien, and Jack had awoken more than a little groggy from his drug-incuded mini-coma. He'd come dressed to impress. The suit he wore was custom-tailored, ice white with slightly darker pin stripes on the pants and coat. The shirt was short-sleeved, keeping in mind that it was going to be warm where he was going, and without the jacket showcased a pair of tattooed sleeves that had cost about as much as the pair of Nighthawk Dominator M1911A1's holstered at the small of his back in a custom shark-skin rig that held both pistols plus three magazines for each. Both weapons showcased heavy engraving, hard chromed finishes inlaid with tasteful gold accents on the control levers and in the engraving itself. The grips were ceylon ebony, like the wood in the car, and showcased a stylized 'JB' on each side, again in gold. The paintjob on the car, not surprisingly, matched the suit perfectly, down to the irridescent color to the slightly darker dual racing stripes that ran down the length of the vehicle. Gawdy? Maybe, but the man had the money and really didn't care what the rest of the world thought about how he spent it.
Continuing with the clothing ensamble he'd chosen to wear this day, the tie matched the suit and the fedora to result in that 'Clean' look some hip-hop artists so loved. The shoes were white Lugz, of all things. On seeing the outfit and the car, one might wonder where exactly the cane and the 'hos' had disappeared to.
Stepping off the loading ramp of the C-130, Jackson threw on the jacket and a pair of mirrored Oakley Aviator-style shades. He lit up a Cohiba Mini cigar, waiting patiently as the crew unloaded his prized muscle car, handing over a stack of currency he'd promised the pilot and the crew if they handled his ride with the care it deserved. The former merc took one last drag on the Cohiba before tossing it to the tarmac to burn itself out. Within moments, he was off to the birthplace of his automotive masterpiece: Rogue Performance Motorsports...
OOC: I am not the GM of this thread, but this is my nation and y'all are about to get some notes that are major league important, so please read this carefully...
Linden Sandoval McCoy looked at the small group before her and repeated herself, as some of the people weren’t local.
"Firstly - Tanaarans drive on the same side of the road as Americans do, so if you are British, please take note of that and make your plans accordingly.
"Secondly -Tanaara has NO speed limits for Throughways. There are speed minimums for certain lanes. If you see a pack of vehicles overtaking you from behind you must either merge with the pack in a manner that does not decrease their speed in a dangerous fashion, or move into a right lane and let them pass.
"Thirdly -Throughways are multilane, and widely divided, so you won't have traffic coming against you on the open road unless there is something very wrong happening. And by widely divided, the divides are often so wide and treed that you can not see the Throughway’s opposite direction All Throughways have twenty foot wide shoulders on either side, and they are all constructed to the same high quality and safety standards that Germany's autobahns are."
"Fourth -You will Not find the usual heavy transport traffic like you would in many other nations. Very few tractor trailer rigs either box or tanker. Long haul across the country transportation has been decimated by Transport technology, but you can still find some who use it locally but they mostly use smaller panel vans and ten wheelers."
"Fifth -but definitely not least, while there many not be speed limits, the LEO's will snatch you faster than you can believe for driving in a hazardous manner. They are deadly serious about that and will use any means necessary to bring vehicles driven such to a halt."
She caught and held each of the drivers and their camera operators’ eyes "If the fog is up, you need to drive in a manner consistent with safety. If the rain is pouring down so that you can't see ten feet ahead of you, you must take such considerations into account. If you get yourself stopped, I will deny all knowledge of you. I Do Not want to be embarrassed by any of you and I am worse than any Tanaaran Judge. And remember they have the death penalty here, no appeals and sentence is carried out within three months.”
“Now get out there and get us some film that will be world class. This is the first race that Fortier’s sponsored since the Fall, and I want this to be worthy of all the trouble we’ve gone to, to get this set up!...and drive safe!"
Linden watched the drivers and cameramen scramble with a faint pleased smile on her lips. Most of them would miss the prerace festivities, catching last minute powernaps, and checking their rides one last time. It wasn't feasible to have teams trying to film from start to finish -as the driving and such required was more tiring than simply being part of the race itself.
The destination wasn't known, but there were only so many places that could be reached in thirteen hours. The minute the destination was revealed, a number of the teams had been assigned take off, using Transportals to get ahead and in place to hopefully intermingle with the racers as they moved through the video teams assigned zones.
Once they were all off she slid into her cobalt blue rebuilt Orion and headed towards Rogue Performance Motorsports, and what whould prove to be a fascinating race. Of that she was absolutely certain.
Robert sat astride the blue, white, and red liveried sport bike, watching as from the over look in the as the cars slowly started rolling into the parking garage beneath Rogue Performance Motorsports. The hill gave him a clear view as some of the employees of the soon to be opened shop directed the racers towards the underground garage. He saw McManus roll up in the CLS and down into the garage, his latest female companion riding shot gun. As usual, he had the windows down and the latest hit rock song blasting over the speakers. He and Robert had spent all last night putting some finishing touches on the unique Benz, including a set of 350forged wheels, recalibrating the ECU for a larger nitrous shot, and a custom fabricated header back exhaust.
He exhaled silently, smiling briefly as he surveyed the vehicles on hand. "I wish you were coming with us this time D."
"Yeah, me too," the solidly built bald man nodded. Dominic Caparza was one of many American expats in Tanaara, running a security consulting firm. He had found Tanaaran business laws far more favorable to his outfit, and had set up shop in the nation a few years earlier. He had been a long time fan of Fortier's work, and had recently taken his car, an Alpine White M6 with a few tweaks from Thor Forge to Robert for the finishing touches. Of course, business had been good, at it was no secret that after the grand opening of Rogue Performance Dominic's Corsa Rossa F430 would be receiving a Novitec twin super charger set up from the shop. His daily driven Audi had also received some special treatment from Thor Forge, and there was an ugly, black Buick in his garage he was hand building.
"Well, we'll miss ya. When am I gonna get a shot at the Butt Ugly in Central Kentucky?"
"Once you get your hands on one."
Robert nodded. "I gotta get home and get ready, make sure that McManus doesn't piss too many people off down there.
Dominic laughed. "I hear that. I'll see in a few days." He slid into the big GT, reversed out of the side spot on the road, and turned away, laying into the gas. The V10 revved quickly as it sped away from Robert.
Fortier just nodded, the headers, cam, and ECU tune complimenting the rest of the exhaust, intake, and suspension that Thor Forge had installed nicely. He backed the BMW super bike out of the same gravel side pit, and turned down the road towards his house, taking in the route as hard as he could push the bike.
Half an hour later, the racers, now joined by a handful of locals, some more foreigners, and a complete pack of bikes ranging from full custom choppers to built and boosted sport bikes loitered in the garage. A catering company had a full spread of Texas style BBQ had been laid out in one corner, and Azrayl, staying home for this run, had begun spinning a light house mix to set the atmosphere.
Victoria had parked her car, a red Audi RS4 with a Tubi Style exhaust and ITG drop in filter, next to McManus's Benz, watching the cars roll into the garage.
He pointed to a shocking blue custom Orion. "That is based off of one of the last New Owl Custom cars. Probably one of the last out of Imitora. Serious engineering in that."
Victoria nodded appreciatively. The sleek lines caught the florescent over head lights perfectly. "Ya'll really liked your cars, didn't you?"
Ryan nodded. "Yup. Almost as much as our guns."
She chuckled, and glanced down to the Tag watch. It was getting close to dusk. "He gonna be here soon?"
"You know Robert. He has to make an entrance."
As if on cue, the black form of an E92 M3 rolled down the ramp into the garage, liquid black paint appearing at times deep purple, and in some places an impossibly dark blue. It stopped in an open space, backing in with a deep growl, and a loud bark from the four liter V8 every time he punched the gas. Near solid black tint allowed little view of the interior, but it was already well know that Robert, disappointed at how boring car interiors had become, had chosen the somewhat louder Fox Red, trimmed with the carbon fiber look leather.
The M3 was, compared to what Robert had usually run in these races, quite tame. He had taken delivery of and installed an Active Autowerkes Signature Catless X Pipe and Exhaust. Air was scavenged from the motor by a set of custom fabricated Rogue Performance Motorsports headers. Air was pulled into the motor by a completely custom air intake system. Robert called it the V.1 Dual Intake Plenum System. It was the first of four manufactured, and one of the only four that would be, two others belonging to customers in Tanaara, and one to a customer in Tarlachia. He had found the system to require too much to mount and set up, and would be advertising a V.2 as part of the RPM Stage Three kit at the grand opening in a week. The set up removed the single upper intake plenum, and mounted a box that was internally split into two halves. Each half was fed from a separate carbon fiber air box with ITG filters on either side of the engine bay, and separately fed each bank of throttle bodies. The throttle bodies had been worked over by Thor Forge, RPM not yet having the proper machining tools for the job. Schrick had worked with Fortier for a set of more aggressive camshafts, and Azrayl had worked his magic on the stock ECU.
On the suspension front, KW coilovers lowered the car and tightened up the ride, keeping all four BBS RS-GT wheels on the ground. The super light BBS wheels were wrapped by Robert's favorite rubber, Michelin Pilot Sport Cups. The red calipers of a Brembo GT brake kit were easily visible through the spokes, as were the slotted rotors. Satisfied with his parking job, Robert turned the car off, opened the door, and stepped out into the crowd.
He pushed his dark black hair back, tossing the Maui Jim's into the car, pushing the door shut. He was dressed casually and comfortably, a white linen button down short sleeve shirt worn unbuttoned over a black Affliction tee. Loose but well fitting jeans dropped down to just below the tops of black and white Puma Driftcats. He smiled at a few familiar faces, and headed over towards Victoria and Ryan. On his way he noticed a few familiar cars, including an older 'Maro SS that had plenty of work done by a number of Imitoran tuners before The Fall.
He leaned up against the Benz next to Ryan, careful to keep the grip of the well concealed Sig Sauer P229 away from the body. He looked over to the Ducareale, appreciating the Van Luxembourgian machine.
"Looks like a good turn out. Almost everyone show up?"
Victoria nodded. "Almost everyone is here, and Scott and his crew are out tonight, spotting some other hot cars rolling in. Should be a fun race."
Robert nodded. "Lets hope so."
Mercy turned on her side and looked over at her new husband as he dozed. She ran a finger down the slope of his nose and watched as his arctic blue eyes snapped open. “Time to get up and get dressed, Handsome. We land in half an hour.” She’d already taken a quick shower herself. “I’ve left you plenty of hot water.”
Without a word in reply he’d brought one arm out from under the sheets and dragged her to him, claiming a thorough kiss. “I suppose that puts us at…what? The hundred mile high club?”
Mercy nipped at his chin as she grinned “Yes, you wretch”
“But you love me being a wretch”
“That I do” She stretched out along his length and snuggled into his warm embrace. “But, come on Errant, up” Her words the complete opposite.
Just minutes before they were scheduled to land Errant was singing in the shower, though exactly what tune he was trying to carry was lost in the rush of water. Mercy grinned. No one would ever faint and clamor for Errant’s golden pipes, but he sang with gleeful gusto. She slid into a pair of body hugging, stone-hued jeans, loving his singing in all its off-key sincerity. She topped the jeans off with a silk, long sleeved tee in deep amber. Once Mercy’d settled her shoulder holster comfortably and checked on the Diablo that it was built for, she pulled a silk and cashmere sweater wrap on for warmth. She’d bring a heavier pea coat for when it got really chilly. Which considering Bon Temps, it most certainly would.
The hypersonic transport touched down with a barely noticeable thump as Errant came out of the upper decks lavish bathroom toweling off. She looked his buff physique over and gave him a teasing wolf whistle. Errant puffed out his chest proudly and strutted towards his bags. As he began dressing she checked through her shoulder bag one last time. Satisfied that she had every thing she needed she slid into her driving mocs and stood.
“Errant, I’m going down stairs”
He gave a muffled assent as he pulled on a crème Aran-knit sweater. He was being such a baby about going to Bon Temps, or the Great White North as he called it. But considering he’d lived all of his life in the tropics, she’d go easy on him…for the first hour. Mercy watched with a smile as her husband bent over pulling on a pair of thick khaki cargo pants. He straightened and returned her smiled with a cocked eyebrow. He went up to his pillow and pulled his pocket holster out and checked his POP gun before sliding it and the holster into his right cargo pocket.
Mercy grabbed the pea coat, and trotted lithely down the curving stairs that led to the main level. There the Miraaderic guard who'd be riding aerial herd on them through the race had passed the flight honing the witty repartee they’d be exchanging as they pretended to be videographers recording the race from a helicopter. Pepper and Mird, the two who’d won the toss, were looking insufferably pleased with themselves, sure sign that they had had a productive flight. The others of the Guard, who’d be lurking out of sight as a rapid response team, were making the best of the situation, but they also knew that Mercy’s transport team had a world class chef on hand. They might not have as much fun, but they’d eat better. Unless things went awry.
Romeo and Juliet, her senior protection team, toggled off the electronic map they had been referring too and stood as the flight attendants began opening the HST’s door, once connection with the private jetway had been made. Shrugging ever so slightly to check how their shoulder holsters sat they headed out of the plane. They would be among those racing, providing the on the ground aspect of the protection detail for Errant and Mercy. Like the Guard, they too hoped things did not go awry, but both groups, ever vigilant planned for the worst.
Errant joined her as Gold and Salva, two of Errant’s primary team followed Romeo and Juliet out. Then the honeymooning couple debarked hand in hand and shortly Mercy was doing a walk around of the Djinn, her newest road racer. This would be the car’s first true race, but Mercy was satisfied that custom designed, hand built car would prove it’s mettle. The TVR Speed Twelve mid engine displaced 7.7 liters and produced over 940 bhp (700 kW) 600 lb-ft of torque. Due to the carbon fibre body the car only weighed in at three thousand pounds, and when asked went from zero to sixty in two point nine seconds.
Errant had settled himself in the passenger seat and pulled out the key board of the build in laptop. He wasn’t about to fool with the tuning programs, but he’d mastered the Tanaaran specialty GPS program easily. He shut his door quickly for as far as he was concerned, though dusk was a couple of hours away, it was already too cold. And he was happier when Mercy finished talking with Romeo and Juliet and slid in beside him.
The drive to the Rogue Performance Motorsports Garage was an eye opener for Errant who’d never ridden in the Djinn before. Mercy put the limber car through it’s paces, enjoying the variety of driving terrain that Bon Temps offered. “We should be here just in time to enjoy a bit of relaxation before they send us all off.” Mercy commented as she wheeled the car into the underground garage. ..and ooh I just know that’s Fortier’s new baby” She had spied the liquid black M3 and gave it an approving glance. “But we’re still going to win” She added confidently..
The silver grey Djinn slid into an open spot and Mercy killed the engine. “Some I know and some I don’t” she commented to Errant as she looked at those assembled and stepped out of the car sniffing at the tantalizing odors of top quality BBQ. “Lets go make the rounds …Oh and grab some food, that smells fantastic.”
She saw Fortier and waved to him, then reached out and grabbed Errant’s hand as he joined her, sliding it around her waist. Then she was guiding him toward Fortier with a wide smile on her face. “I never got to thank you for the wedding present.” She said as they strolled up to where the Imitoran chatted with a couple she didn’t know next to a very nice looking Benz. The wedding, only a few days ago, had been a lavish social affair and she had not had a chance to spend as much time visiting with old friends as she would have liked. As they got closer though Mercy was sure she recognised the man, her memory providing a tidbit of information on his having been part of the team that helped stop the Coup all those years ago. Though she wasn't absolutely certain.
OOC: Damn you WA, classic muscle cars are my forte when it comes to Lance. :P No worries. I've thought of something else.
Dim lighting illuminated the beige cover that hid the latest, and most secret project of the renown street racing legend that most only knew as Lance. His last name was not necessary when spoken to the right people. All that Lance's son knew was that his father was trying something different, a slight departure from his known calibre cars, and yet...not quite. Evolved was perhaps the better word. Still, the old muscle cars of Lance's youngest years that later became beloved and well-known by the teenager in only a way that a prodigy mechanic could, and later still to become the legend he was now.
Still, his son knew better than to question his old man on why the car's outer form which so obviously was not anything from the pre-80's time. Hell, he was pretty sure it wasn't anything from the mid-nineties and back. He never could get close enough to lift that skirt of that not-so-dainty monster, and see the virgin novelty of the car, and more importantly, what lay beneath the hood. He hadn't been able to get close because his father had, of all things, installed a superior surveillance system to wrap the project in its mystery. Even the parts that had come in as per special order, were code-worded, per a small green tinted request from Lance to the appropriate senders.
The son crossed his arms as he sat on the hood of his own ride, something he had customized himself, but not his greatest work yet. No, like his father, his skill was increasing, but his knowledge and training in the field had started a bit later in life than for his father. Nevertheless, he was his father's son.
"Dying inside again, I see." a voice called from a few paces away belonging to Lance. He watched as his son nodded in agreement, then shook his head in exasperation. "When, Dad?"
"Today." Lance replied, watching as his son practically fell off his car in surprise. "It's ready to roll, at last." The envelope was tossed across the hood of the son's car, spinning until it stopped a few inches from him. "Seems someone's set up a race, one sure to draw a few legends, and a few up and coming legends, for a thirteen hour run out west."
"West? Tanaara?" the younger man replied as he read the invitation. "Sweet. So you're going then."
"You too. Something you should experience. You'll see a real race finally, not those bullshit ball scratchers you're too good for against those ricers that are so afraid of the police that they hide at the first mention of a squad car within a mile radius. For once, you're going to see why the police fear us. The Tanaarans civil brass are tough, but how tough, we'll see."
Lance smiled a mite second before removing a remote from his pocket and keyed in the combination to the security system. At once, the cloaked car was illuminated in brighter light and the shop's emblem, Red Moon Customs on the back wall became more visible. He waved a hand toward the car, "Take off the cloth."
As the cloth was removed with care, the car's rich cobalt blue coat shone passionately beneath the lights. Lance watched as his son's eyes lingered over the car for several long moments, trying to identify it. He spoke up a few moments later, "2010 Camaro SS. Partially a blend of Corvette body features with cues from my personal favorite, the '69 Camaro," He walked around toward the driver's side, unlocked the door and pulled the latch for the hood. A few moments later, he lifted the hood and set its restraining bar in place. "6.2-liter, V8 base-Corvette engine, supercharged, brings it to about 638 hp on stock alone. A little extra work on my part allowed me to push that to 657hp. Redid or upgraded a number of other things as well to handle the stress this baby's gonna be pumping out and that's pretty much it."
"Sweet mother of God." came the expected response from his son. "But...what's that there? I've not seen that type of intake before."
Lance looked where the fingers lightly touched. "Ah yes...gift from a friend of mine from another shop. A prototype intake system. Told her I'd test it out and let her know how it works, give her some advice later. I've got to say, it's so far performed quite well to my expectations, even surpassed them. However, friend of mine in Imitora sent me a different intake system. Not meant for this car though. I'll use it on my next project I've got in mind..." He allowed his son to take a look for a few more minutes, poking his head about the bay, trying to commit to memory the genius of his father's mind, the finest in Tarlachia, and on par with the finest in the region. Although...the very finest were those of Imitora, but the tragic dark events surrounding that nation were well known. Still, some had escaped devastation, so the Imitoran spirit remained alive as long as they lived.
The hood clicked closed a moment later and Lance gestured to the doorway, "Get your bag packed. We're leaving tonight. Deadline to be there is tomorrow."
The Next Day
The powerful V8 rumbled beneath the cobalt hood and even if it hadn't been for that, the very shape and appearance of the Camaro was attention grabbing all by itself. Some had heard of the new model Camaro coming out after the model was retired in 2002, but few had actually seen it, and none knew just how this grizzled old man behind the wheel had obtained it. He whom sat with an arm balanced on the open window sill and seemed quite comfortable where he was. From the speakers; customized to give clearer sound when the car became 'aware' when the windows were open even from outside the vehicle; the powerful, fast paced heavy rock song "White Knuckles" of Alterbridge's Blackbird album rocked the surrounding atmosphere.
It cruised smoothly to a halt a few car lengths away from the sleek black M3, and shut down into silence. Lance and his son emerged a moment later and the father took the lead as he made his way toward the man whose sole signature was on the bottom of the invitation, Robert Fortier. The invitation in question was held up as the approached group's attention was drawn to the two newcomers. "Thirteen hours again? Shit man, last time was bad enough! I did pack a little more than some paint though."
Lance laughed a little then turned serious, "I hate dirty racers, after all." The smile returned a moment later. "And, if you're still wondering, yes I'm still alive, and yes, I've made sure to note the location of all oceans that could possibly be the resting place of my ride and have planned accordingly. As in, it ain't happenin'..."
"You sayin' that's a true story, Dad? The drive off the cliff?" his son questioned with an eyebrow raised. "How the hell did--"
"Boy, shut up before I stuff you in the trunk of that ugly ass civic over there. Who the hell invited that clown anyway?" Lance responded as he stared at the car in question. Turning to the others again he glanced down at himself as he realized they were all far more better dressed than he. He had come in a black and red 'Red Moon Customs' teeshirt, a pair of slightly worn jeans, and New Balance running shoes. Looking up at them, he just shrugged as if it were acceptable.
Jackson locked the old 'Maro up, departing for the sign-in desk and to rub shoulders with some of the other contestants. He didn't recognize any of them, save Rob Fortier, the guy who owned the shop that had made the old Chevy more than the sum of its parts. He kept the jacket on, aware of the fact that flashing a pair of flashy forty-fives wasn't the best way to make friends.
The garage was a literal Rogue's Gallery of different makes, models, and the drivers that owned them. He also became aware of the fact that it looked like he was the only guy riding solo. Everyone else appeared to have a second member. Perhaps he hadn't read the letter all that thoroughly, but fuck it he was here to race. Thirteen hours in a seated position would mean a numb ass for the flight home, but then again he could use the vacation in a foreign land so he might just stick around. Casting about, he located who he thought was the owner of RPM and walked over to make an introduction...
"How ya doin'? Name's Jack Bray. I'm hopin' you're the guy who mod'ed my baby over there..."
Jack jerked a thumb back over his shoulder at his car before extending his hand. A handshake was most definitely in order. The workmanship was top-notch, the timing flawless. It had also occoured to Jack that he might be a little over-dressed for the occasion, since BBQ was involved and sauce didn't mix well with an all-white getup like he'd assembled for the evening...
OOC: I hear ya man, but MO (Rob to the rest of us ;) ) already had this monster drawn up for a previous race. Figured I'd just pull it out of the garage and slap a new coat of paint on it :)
OOC: Just to let every one know - when I'm relating Tanaaran faq's I'll highlight 'em in dark red
Actually Linden was running solo, though if it had been a rally style race she wouldn't have been, and like every other Tanaaran in the garage she was armed. It was optional, but since all Citizens were required to own firearms, and train with them regularly - most carried them, if discretely. Linden had a Rock River Arms Elite Commando in an Uncle Mikes GunRunner fanny pack.
She knew the Queen Mother, but not well and certainly could not claim to be any sort of a friend, having met and competed against her at a few of the more prominent rally races. She had never met Mercedez’ new husband though. She knew he was the Miraade, or ruler of Catawaba, one of the other Fatal Terrain nations. She knew that it was a fairly paradisiacal tropical island nation and relatively new to status as an independent nation, but that was about it.
She had mingled companionably with the tuners from Thor Forge, Hard Times, FTM, Valhalla, moving from car to car discussing the pros and cons of each, or simply drooling- though they all subtly snubbed Viktor Helwulf, the owner and head designer of Gold Coast . He’d not endeared himself to any one with some of his past antics, and his open avowal of ‘if you aren’t cheating you aren’t trying’. There was some serious automotive eye candy in the garage, but everyone just knew theirs would be proven the best in the end. She found it amusing that many of the best Tanaaran drivers were also, either past or present, fighter jocks. The need for speed tended to rule more than one facet of their lives.
FTM, Five To Midnight and Hard Times had their own classic American Muscle cars, Thor Forge had a custom made that they tentatively designated a Starfire that looked dangerous just sitting still and Valhalla had two, their updated Valkyra, and the Queen Mother’s Djinn. Though who had designed and engineered the Djinn hadn’t been publicized, just as the fact that Mercedez Merrideath Hexx- Mira’ad owned Valhalla since Viktor had made the mistake of betting against her, was not widely known.
Starfire 
Valkyra 
]
Djinn 
“Lance!” Mercy spun about at the sound of that growly voice. She hadn’t seen him since the TMZ automotive Expo, but she was glad to see him. Though she had to laugh at his threat to his son, Josh
"Boy, shut up before I stuff you in the trunk of that ugly ass civic over there. Who the hell invited that clown anyway?"
“Yes he did drive off a cliff” She nodded and ignored the notorious Tarlachian’s glower “but he hasn’t repeated it since…Lance, Josh this is my husband Errant.” She introduced the two to him and looked for Jason “Jason couldn’t make it?” She had only met the two young men at the TMZ Expo, some four years ago but she had a knack for names and faces.
How ya doin'? Name's Jack Bray. I'm hopin' you're the guy who mod'ed my baby over there..."
That accent definitely wasn't Tanaaran - American maybe - and Mercy looked over at the newcomer as he walked up to Fortier, sizing him up carefully. She noted the ordinance under both arms and raised a mental eyebrow on seeing an American carrying, even it it was allowed in Tanaara. Though the jacket was cut to conceal, she had a practiced eye in spotting such. If she hadn't. Romeo and Juliet both just a few discrete steps away, would have never let her out of the house.
Robert checked his watch, there was just under an hour till the official sunset time. He had planned a special launch, one that would make the launch of the first Thirteen Hours look tame. He had even budgeted aside a small amount should there be any damage to the garage during the take off. Of course, Robert hoped there wouldn’t be any to pay for, but it had been accounted for, all the same.
“Who’s that?” he asked, pointing out a blue Orion. Very few of the racer’s he had personally invited, the rest had often been on recommendation lists.
“Her name is Linden McCoy. Autobroker and representative outa the US, but she lives here now. Least, that’s how I think it goes. That is ona’ Hoot’s, right?”
“Yeah, looks like it was at some point,” Robert replied, eyeing the Orion. “Autobroker, uh?”
“Yeah,” Connor replied, shoving a piece of corn bread soaked in barbeque sauce into his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds, and looked at Robert. “Why?”
“I need to find some cars that a broker might have a better shot of locating. I have contacts, but they have, well, contacts.” He put an accent on the word, not so much as to say it in a bad way, but to underline the more expansive list of phone numbers most brokers could call.
Victoria pushed herself away from the Benz, and reached into Robert’s back pocket, pulling out his wallet. She flipped it open, pulled out a card, and then stuck it back in his jeans. “Be right back.”
Connor looked at her funny, cocking his head to the side.
She shrugged. “It’s part of my job.” She dove into the crowed, seeking out Linden.
“Personal secretary for the win,” Connor joked. “I gotta get me one of those.”
Robert looked up just in time to see Mercy and Errant coming towards him.
“Shit, its Mercy? I didn’t know she still slummed it up with us low lives,” McManus said, watching them approach. “I mean, after everything that happened.”
“Things change,” Robert replied, watching the couple approach. The Imitoran moved slowly, bending slightly at the waist, then pushing up through his feet to stand fully upright. He smiled, taking a few steps forward, and extended his hand to shake theirs.
I never got to thank you for the wedding present.
Robert shrugged, smiling as he cocked his head ever so slightly. “It was nothing, really, just a little something I thought you two could use. I’m just glad you liked it, never really bought a wedding present before. I had to have some help.”
Robert had enjoyed the wedding; it had given him a little bit of a break from working on the cars and planning a grand opening. Of course, he couldn’t really call it work. He could leave whenever he wanted, take time off, and made his own hours. And he enjoyed it, too.
“Please, though, don’t tell me your spending one of your honey moon nights racing around with a bunch of anti social deviants hell bent on getting themselves killed in some sort of blaze of glory.” Robert looked back to where they had walked from. “And I assume a new car? No Hex or Spellbreaker this time, eh?”
He turned back to the Benz, noticing Connor looking off at another car, his mouth full with food. “And I’m sure you remember Connor McManus? He was my team sniper, and was with us during the coup.”
Connor choked, turning after hearing his name being said. Hastily, he put the plate on the roof of the CLS, and grabbed a bottle of water, washing down the meat, bread, and sauce in his mouth down with a painful swallow.
“Asshole,” he muttered quietly as he passed Robert, hand extended. “It’s good to see you again, Mercy,” he smiled. He then offered his hand to Errant. “Connor McManus, please to meet you.”
“And somewhere around here is my personal assistant, Victoria Reynolds. She pretty much keeps everything running and on schedule.”
Thirteen hours again? Shit man, last time was bad enough! I did pack a little more than some paint though.
“Lance God Damned Freeman! Its been too long!” Robert exclaimed, stepping forward. He gave the Tarlachian a firm, welcoming handshake, grinning. “It’s good to see you again Lance, and how did I know you’d be here with a 2010 SS? How do ya like it so far?”
How ya doin'? Name's Jack Bray. I'm hopin' you're the guy who mod'ed my baby over there...
Fortier turned to see Bray, and extended his hand. “Jack, it’s great to finally meet ya.”
He followed Jack’s thumb over his shoulder, and nodded. “Well, I drew up the plans for it, if I’m thinking it’s the one I’m thinking of, but Connor here did the wrenching. Jack,” he said, looking to McManus, “this is my buddy Connor McManus. Does a good bit of muscle tuning when he isn’t trying to get his Mercedes to run right for once.”
Connor McManus stepped forward, sticking out his hand. “Well, not all of us are just as lucky as you are when it comes to reliability,” he replied. The former sniper turned to Jack. “Pleasure to meet ya, almost as much as it was to build that car.”
Lance smiled as Mercy greeted him, pulling her in for a respectful kiss then parted to shake hands with her husband, "You're going to have to tell me what she promised you in order to marry a fire-hearted gal like her." he spoke with a grin. Returning to Mercy he answered her question regarding Jason. "Not this time. Boy's gotten himself some thoughts on serving a stint in the corps, and so gone off to serve his country, boots and all. He's stationed in a troublesome area out east, so I'm sure he's always on his toes. He's a good kid though and tough enough."
“Lance God Damned Freeman! Its been too long!” Robert exclaimed, stepping forward. He gave the Tarlachian a firm, welcoming handshake, grinning. “It’s good to see you again Lance, and how did I know you’d be here with a 2010 SS? How do ya like it so far?”
Lance chuckled, "How'd ya know? Probably the same way you know when shit goes down. Little birds on your shoulder and all. Seems even for all my secrecy surrounding this project, you still found out. Bastard." The serious face that had taken up for a few moments was broken with another smile. "Car's running great, though I think I might do a little work on it tonight to fine-tune a few small things."
Josh looked around at the others and nodded to a few glances passed his way. He let his eyes fall on an older Camaro and gave a grin. "Check it out, someone's edgin' into your domain, Dad." he said as he elbowed his father and pointed out the car.
Lance looked and sensed that there was more there than the eye could tell from this distance. "Ain't nothing wrong with that, son. It's nice to see another with an appreciation of the cars of my youth." A glance around to the group again, settling on the man who introduced himself as Jack Bray. "Lance Freeman, Red Moon Customs. I should've known Rob here had his greasy thumb fiddlin' in your engine." He grinned.