Need for Speed Read online

  The no-name space was filled to capacity. Several hundred of New York City’s rich and powerful were rubbing elbows and drinking Brut Gold champagne. An invitation to this happening had been extremely hard to get—other events in the city this night paled in comparison.

  At the stroke of midnight, those attending had their attention steered to a fantastic 3-D holographic program projected in the center of the room. Through spinning, moving drawings of mechanical designs and schematics, they were presented with the inner workings of the “last Shelby Mustang” come to life. The engine, the chassis, the interior, the wheels. Each component had not just been designed, the ghostly, disembodied narration claimed, but had been hand-sculpted in a way to fit together, altogether perfectly. And many of them were parts that were built only to exist within this fantastic machine alone, never to be made again.

  Those gathered were appropriately enthralled, but there was more. When the narration concluded, the holograph began spinning faster, and suddenly it was like something ethereal was being born right before their eyes. This birth was represented by the image of a galloping stallion slowly transforming itself into the Mustang-inspired supercar.

  The crowd applauded lustily, but still, the best was yet to come. At the same moment the horse morphed into the 3-D car, a curtain lifted, a fanfare came from nowhere and suddenly before their eyes was the magical car itself. The last Shelby Mustang. The Ford Supercar GT, displayed like a work of art, surrounded by plush velvet ropes.

  Paparazzi camera flashes lit up the crowded room—the strobes of bright light bounced off the descending mist, now transforming them into millions of tiny emeralds, floating down, silently cascading onto the Mustang below.

  It was like a psychedelic experience, without the drugs.

  As intended, the crowd was beside itself with wonder.

  * * *

  In one corner of the room, though, looking very out of place and by no means caught up in the wonderfulness of it all, were Joe Peck and Finn. Both were dressed up, sort of. Peck was wearing an overly large jacket, a too-tight dress shirt, and even a tie, though its knot was done all wrong.

  Finn looked no better. He’d borrowed a suit from a cousin, who obviously hadn’t bought a suit since the mid-eighties. He and Joe had spent an hour before the show opened figuring out how to remove its massive shoulder pads without tearing any of the outer material.

  They were extremely uncomfortable. Manhattan was like another world to them. It was a big, noisy, expensive place that they never had any reason to go to, grand as it seemed to be. As soon as they’d stepped off the Metro-North train in Penn Station earlier that day, both of them would have given anything to be somewhere else.

  Tobey and Little Pete weren’t faring much better. They were standing next to the velvet ropes surrounding the supercar, also dressed in ill-fitting suits, a sea of beautiful people swirling around them. To them, the guests were like a different kind of species altogether, graceful and flowing, but plastic—and no matter what Tobey and Pete did, no matter how they stood or how they talked, they just couldn’t blend in. They were sticking out like sore thumbs.

  Tobey in particular felt out of place and lost. While he was proud of what they had done with the Super Mustang, this was not his turf. This was where Anita lived, and that alone filled him with negative, brooding thoughts. Eight million people called New York City home, but it was knowing that just one of them was here, within the city limits, and maybe even close by, that was enough to dishearten him.

  He was so low that even at the very moment his supercar was being introduced, he caught himself thinking that he’d never felt so alone.

  But then he met Julia.

  When Tobey first spotted her walking across the room toward him, it was suddenly like she was the only person in the room who was in color—everyone else had turned to black-and-white. She was beautiful. Blonde. Well-dressed. And she moved with such confidence and grace; that in itself was a thing of beauty.

  She reached the spot where they were standing, gave them both a visual going-over, and then asked, “So, this car—how fast does it go?” Her accent was British and very sexy.

  “Fast,” Tobey replied, just barely croaking out the word.

  “Very fast,” Little Pete added.

  But the beauty was skeptical. It showed on her face, and especially on her lips.

  “Aren’t all Mustangs fast?” she asked.

  “This car was built by Ford,” Pete said, recalling words from the gallery’s press release. “And reimagined by Carroll Shelby, the greatest performance car builder in American history.”

  “But, Pete,” Tobey interrupted with a smirk, “that means nothing to her. Can’t you tell? She’s not from around here. And I doubt that she has any idea who Mr. Shelby is.”

  Pete thought a moment, but then concluded boastfully, “Well, we finished it. Our shop was the one that made a supercar out of it.”

  “Why is it so fast, though?” Julia shot back at him.

  Pete smiled and went off script.

  “Nine hundred horsepower, baby,” he said. “Pure stroke and power.”

  Tobey had to laugh at Little Pete’s exuberance—his little brother.

  But still she was not impressed.

  “Is that a lot?” she asked. “Nine hundred horsepower, I mean?”

  Little Pete couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you kidding?” he asked her.

  Tobey intervened again. “Relax, Pete,” he said.

  He turned to the pretty blonde.

  “Miss, this isn’t a car you can buy at the mall,” he said. “Trust me when I say it’s one of a kind.”

  Still she seemed confused.

  “Can I see the engine?” she asked innocently.

  Little Pete popped the hood with pleasure. Tobey raised it so she could see beneath.

  “Huh . . .” she said, studying the engine closely, “5.8-liter. Aluminum block. Supercharger. Racing headers. Nice, actually . . .”

  Little Pete just stared at her. He was speechless. Tobey, though, was smiling.

  “Gotta admit,” he said to her, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  She moved just a bit closer to him.

  “From a woman, you mean?” she asked. “Or is it because I’m British? Mr. Shelby’s first Cobra was built using a car called an AC Ace Bristol—manufactured in England. But . . . you knew that, right?”

  Tobey fell speechless. There was nothing he could say to her at that moment that would have made any sense.

  “Life can be full of surprises,” she told him with a wink.

  Little Pete piped up again. “I find life to be full of people who think they’re smart just because they have a British accent.”

  She turned toward him. “Is that right?” she asked.

  “You ever watch Piers Morgan?” he asked back.

  She giggled, just a little, then turned back to Tobey.

  “Is this how you guys do it?” she asked. “Is that your act? You’re kind of tough and quiet and he cracks the jokes?”

  Again, Tobey was at a loss for words. It didn’t help that he just couldn’t stop staring at her.

  But then a dark shadow appeared over them. The lights in the hall seemed to go dim. The cascading emerald mist lost its glow.

  Suddenly Dino Brewster was there, injecting himself into the conversation.

  “Hi, Julia,” he said.

  Tobey’s heart plunged to his new shoes. Why in the world would these two know each other?

  “Three million is way too much for this car, Dino,” Julia told him directly.

  “But that’s what it costs,” Dino replied. “Let’s see what Ingram thinks.”

  “I am what Ingram thinks,” she insisted. “And Ingram thinks it’s worth two million at the most.”

  Dino shook his head. “Sorry,
three million is the number.”

  “But three is absurd,” she said. “And everyone here knows it. They loved the presentation—but why do you think nobody’s bid on it yet?”

  Dino didn’t miss a beat. “There’s still plenty of time for that. Plus, it’s the best car I’ve driven since Indy—”

  But then Pete interrupted again. He saw a wrong and had to right it. That’s just the way he was.

  “You’ve never driven this car,” he told Dino dismissively. “Tobey has had the keys the whole time.”

  Julia smirked. “You want me to plug my ears and turn around while you guys get on the same page?”

  Little Pete laughed at her joke. But Dino was staring daggers at him.

  Still she continued her assault. “What’s the top speed?” she asked Dino directly.

  “One eighty,” Dino replied—but Tobey answered at the same exact moment, except he said, “two thirty . . .”

  She looked authentically surprised. “Two hundred and thirty miles per hour?”

  Dino tried to explain. “He’s talking about a theoretical top speed,” he said, rather desperately.

  She pointed to Tobey. “I know that he doesn’t really talk much,” she said. “But let’s see if Mr. Strong and Silent can be less silent.”

  “She’ll go two thirty,” Tobey said simply.

  “But the top NASCAR speed ever was two twenty-eight,” she told him.

  “This car is faster,” Tobey replied calmly.

  Finally she stopped talking for a moment. A wide smile lit up her face.

  “Okay,” she said, “eight o’clock tomorrow up in your neck of the woods at Shepperton. You get anything close to two thirty out of this car, Ingram will buy it on the spot.”

  Suddenly, Dino was excited again. “For three million?”

  Julia giggled again. “Give or take a million,” she said. “Mostly take.”

  With that, she walked away.

  All three of them watched her go. But Dino was fuming.

  “Two thirty,” he growled at Tobey once she was out of earshot. “Are you crazy? What if I can’t get the car up to that speed?”

  “You can’t,” Tobey told him simply. “But I can. So I’ll drive.”

  Dino could barely control his anger. While their collaboration to create the Super Shelby had been a success, mostly because Dino hadn’t interfered with the building process, ever since the project had been completed, he’d been the same old Dino. Asshole, douche bag, tool.

  As proof of this, in a low, threatening voice, he said to Tobey, “Don’t even think about driving that car . . . and I mean, ever.”

  Six

  A GOOD EXAMPLE of just how affluent some residents of the Mount Kisco area were could be found about ten miles east of town.

  It was called the Shepperton Motor Club, but essentially it was a private racetrack. While its owners were always quick to point out that it was more than just a place for the mega-rich to race their mega-expensive cars—that it was also a resort, a training ground, and a retreat—the truth was, in these things, size mattered. And Shepperton was nearly twice the size of the Mount Kisco country club, that rattrap closer to town.

  In addition to all those other amenities, Shepperton boasted a 4.2-mile track that snaked its way through 175 acres of strategically placed woods, finely mowed lawns, and low grassy shoulders. It featured many grand corners, built with the great European tracks in mind, and had more than a mile and a half of straightaways, four hundred feet of elevation changes, and twenty-two turns, including three hairpins.

  Membership there was ultra-exclusive; only about 1 percent of the 1 percent could get in, and the dues ran into the high six figures. Anyone owning what would be considered less than a typical supercar would be best off trying to get their kicks somewhere else.

  This was why Tobey, despite his love for all things cars and racing, had never been past its gates. Until now.

  * * *

  The day had dawned bright and fiery, covering the private racetrack with bloodred colors. Tobey and Little Pete were the first to arrive. Passing through the security check as invited members of Dino Brewster, they drove slowly up the winding road leading to the main field.

  “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Little Pete whispered on seeing the facilities, which included rows of well-maintained private garages, equipment buildings, and fuel houses. “I’ve always wondered what this place looked like up close.”

  “Me, too,” Tobey sighed.

  They rolled the Mustang off the flatbed truck, handling it with the utmost care. Once done, they both took a good look around.

  “Where is everybody?” Pete asked, checking the time.

  “I guess we’re early,” Tobey said.

  He was glad for this—he wanted some time to think about what would come next.

  He walked over to the Mustang and ran his hand along its roofline. He knew every inch of the supercar—every part, every gasket, every nut, screw, and bolt. The Super Mustang really was a work of art. He was proud of it, and proud of the Marshall team for doing such a great job.

  Then he looked out onto the track. It was untouched so far for the day. Glistening. Inviting. Dewdrop perfect.

  Little Pete knew Tobey well. He studied his friend as Tobey took turns admiring the car and then glancing out on the empty racetrack. Pete could almost hear the wheels spinning in Tobey’s head. He knew what he was thinking.

  “Tobey?” he said to him. “Tobey . . .”

  But Tobey didn’t reply.

  So Little Pete walked up beside him and looked out on the track as well.

  Then he said, “You’ve got to do it, bro.”

  * * *

  Not a minute later, Tobey was behind the wheel of the Shelby Mustang, tearing around the racetrack.

  He went through the first big turn at 180 mph—but that was just the beginning. He and his car were just warming up.

  He shifted up to sixth gear, came out of the turn, and stomped on the accelerator. The speedometer began climbing.

  . . .190 . . . 200 . . . 210 . . .

  A moment later he was rocketing down the first straightaway at an ungodly speed—exactly what the supercar had been designed to do.

  Now it was up to him to prove his claims were true.

  He went into the next turn high on the bank. That it cost him a few extra moments to take the longer line didn’t bother him. This was all about building speed. Coming off the high bank, he would achieve a slingshot effect—or so he hoped. He needed all the velocity he could get so he could crank the Mustang up to the magic 230 mph on the next straightaway, before he ran out of road again.

  Little Pete was standing alone back in the pits near the high turn. Tobey caught a glimpse of him in the microsecond it took to go by. He just barely saw that Pete had his hands up to his ears, trying to block out the noise of the Super Mustang’s super engine.

  That’s a good sign, he thought.

  Then Tobey hit the straightaway and put one eye on his speedometer.

  It began to creep above 220 . . . 222 . . . 223 . . .

  * * *

  Back in the pits, Little Pete had taken his hands away from his ears, only to hear someone screaming. He turned to see Dino running toward him like a madman. He was pointing wildly at the Mustang as it rocketed around the next turn.

  “Stop him!” Dino was screaming at Pete. “Goddammit! Stop him!”

  * * *

  Two minutes later, Tobey pulled into the pit area and climbed out of the Mustang. He was smiling broadly, a rarity.

  But then Dino appeared, and the smile was gone.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Marshall?” Dino screamed at him. “You don’t own this car! You don’t get to joyride in it!”

  Tobey kept his cool. He just walked away from him.

  “Top speed’s
a little over two thirty,” he called over his shoulder to Dino. “We did it.”

  But Dino wasn’t really listening. He grabbed Tobey, his fist reared back ready to punch him. But Tobey was much quicker. He caught Dino’s arm and held it firm, making any punch impossible. Still, they were just seconds away from a major brawl.

  Suddenly, a female voice rose above the fray.

  “According to this . . .” the voice said.

  It was enough to freeze Dino and Tobey in place. They looked up to see Julia, as beautiful as ever, holding up a radar gun.

  “According to this,” she said again, “it’s true . . . Tobey hit two thirty . . .”

  A man in an expensive suit was standing next to her. He had binoculars around his neck.

  He was Mark Ingram, filthy rich, playboy-ish, a ranking member at Shepperton, and the owner of many high-performance cars.

  “That was some driving, son,” Ingram said to Tobey. “And that’s one hell of a car.”

  He looked at the Super Mustang again and then back at the small group in the pits.

  “And it’s gonna cost me three million?” he asked.

  Dino looked over at Julia and then back at Ingram.

  “Yes, sir,” Dino said. “It is.”

  “Two point seven . . .” Julia piped up.

  Dino looked back at her with dark eyes. But she had no problem staring him down.

  Ingram broke the stalemate. “If Julia says it’s worth two point seven,” he said. “I’ll pay two point seven . . . take it or leave it.”

  * * *

  It was official just a few minutes later.

  Ingram wrote Dino a check for $2.7 million without blinking an eye. Then, to celebrate his purchase, he put on a racing helmet, got behind the wheel of the Mustang and roared away.

  This should have been a special moment for all involved, but Dino ruined that. He was still ready to kill Tobey.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” he half screamed at him again. “If you had wrecked that car—or blown the engine, or anything, this whole deal would have been fucked.”