Chapter nine The big Shot

  Morning sunlight creeps through the half-open blinds, cutting across his face. He blinks awake, groaning, stretching his sore arm. The wound’s stiff but clean — Chloe’s work, neat as always.

  He’s halfway through pulling himself upright when his phone buzzes on the table beside him. Rico.

  Alex grabs it, still rubbing his eyes.

  “Yeah?”

  Rico’s voice is low, cautious. “You alive?”

  “Barely.”

  “Good. Listen — you’re gonna want to hear this.”

  Alex sits up, alert. “Go on.”

  “That Charger that hit you? The guy driving it took the win last night. Word is, the big shot liked what he saw — offered him the job.”

  Alex’s jaw tightens. “Figures.”

  Rico hesitates. “But here’s the twist… that big shot, he still wants to talk to you.”

  “Why? I didn’t even finish.”

  “That’s what I said,” Rico replies. “But he told me, and I quote, ‘Anyone who outruns half the LAPD in a car that small deserves a call.’ So, I gave him your number.”

  Rico says. “Guy’s serious money. If he wants to talk, maybe it’s worth hearing him out.”

  “something tells me this ain’t just about racing anymore.”

  Alex leans back, "you might be right" running a hand through his hair. Outside, he can hear Chloe’s kettle whistling faintly from the small side room.

  He exhales slowly. “Fine. If this guy calls… I’ll listen.”

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Rico chuckles dryly. “You might want to fix your car first.”

  “Yeah,” Alex mutters, glancing at the half-disassembled MR2. “Working on it.”

  The line clicks dead.

  Alex drops the phone on the table and stares at the cracked turbo sitting beside it, blackened and broken.

  Whatever this “big job” is… it’s just starting.

  The phone buzzes again. Unknown number.

  Alex hesitates a moment, then answers.

  “Yeah?”

  A calm, steady voice replies — older, confident.

  “Alex Mercer.”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “You can call me Vance,” the voice says smoothly. “We’ve got mutual friends. Rico told me you were the man to talk to.”

  Alex leans back on the sofa, studying the MR2’s shadowed outline. “You’re the big shot behind that daylight run?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You know one of your racers tried to put me into a wall?”

  There’s a brief pause — then Vance chuckles, low and unbothered. “In my business, a little aggression separates the ambitious from the cautious. I heard you escaped the cops. That’s what caught my attention.”

  Alex’s jaw tightens. “I don’t crash — and I don’t get caught.”

  Vance grins faintly. “Good answer.”

  The voice lowers slightly, becoming more deliberate.

  “I’m putting together a crew for a job. I need two drivers — not amateurs, not showboaters. Professionals. The kind that can handle heat, think on the fly, and stay cool when the sirens close in. You fit the profile.”

  Alex’s brow furrows. “You’re talking about a heist.”

  “You can call it that,” Vance says casually. “Let’s just say it’s high-risk, high-reward. You wouldn’t be driving for show this time — you’d be driving to survive.”

  Alex glances toward the MR2 again, its hood propped up like an open wound. “I’m honored, but my car’s in pieces. Took a hard hit.”

  “No worries,” Vance replies, tone sharp now. “I’m arranging vehicles. Custom-built. Each worth more than a mansion in Beverly Hills, and faster than anything you’ve ever touched. You’ll have what you need — you just bring the skill.”

  Alex’s pulse ticks faster. “You’re serious.”

  “I don’t waste time on jokes, Alex. You’ll get the details when we meet. One week from now.”

  The line goes quiet for a moment, then Vance adds, “Don’t be late.”

  The call ends — no goodbye, no trace.

  Alex lowers the phone slowly, his reflection flickering in the black screen.

  Chloe walks in just then with a mug of coffee, catching his expression. “Who was that?” she asks.

  He exhales, eyes still fixed on the MR2. “Someone who wants me to drive for him,” he says quietly.

  “Race?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Something bigger.”

  Chloe sets the mug down, voice low but cutting. “Don’t tell me,” she says. “I’m not going back to square one worrying about you. Just… keep me out of it.”

  She pauses, jaw tight. “I’m done biting my nails, expecting a call from the hospital at any second. I’ve spent too many nights waiting to hear you made it through. You handle this — I’m staying out.”