Chapter 28 - The Velocity of Rage
The pack exploded off the line in a flurry of spinning carbon spokes and flashing gloves.
The roar of fifty thousand spectators erupted, vibrating through the asphalt. Julian Drake surged to the front immediately, his long arms generating immense torque as he claimed the inside line leading into the first turn off Meridian Street.
Mia lagged behind in fourth place, boxed in by two larger competitors from the Chicago academy.
"She's biding her time," Marcus yelled over the din, tracking her on his digital telemetry tablet. "Her cadence is eighty strokes a minute. She’s saving her shoulders for the incline at the Capitol circle!"
On the massive jumbotron screens lining the boulevard, the broadcast cameras captured every split second. Montgomery stood at the edge of his box, his knuckles white against the mahogany railing. On screen, a graphic flashed: *MIA VANCE - 8 YEARS OLD - THE YOUNGEST QUALIFIER IN STATE HISTORY.*
Turn two approached—a sharp ninety-degree left bend onto Washington Street.
The two racers boxing Mia in drifted slightly wide to manage the lateral G-force. It was an opening no wider than three feet.
"Go, Mia!" I screamed until my throat tore.
With breathtaking precision, Mia leaned hard to her left, dipping her body so low her shoulder nearly scraped the asphalt. She threaded the needle between the two chairs with millimeters to spare, her titanium push-rims singing as she accelerated through the apex of the turn.
The crowd let out a thunderous roar.
"Look at that maneuver!" the announcer screamed through the monitors. "Mia Vance takes second position! She is hunting down Julian Drake!"
Down the long straightaway toward the state capitol, Julian looked over his shoulder. The smug arrogance on his face melted into pure panic. Mia was gaining on him with every push, closing a ten-meter gap with relentless, mechanical rhythm.
*Clack-push. Clack-push. Clack-push.*
She wasn't just racing. She was an unstoppable force of iron and will, carrying the weight of two years of trauma, the memory of her father, and the defiant declaration that she would never be broken.
At the one-mile mark, she pulled alongside Julian’s rear wheel.
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Up in the VIP box, Montgomery stepped away from the window, pulling a radio from his pocket, his face pale and furious. "Do it now," he whispered into the mic. "Blow the junction."
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