"You're late with the tribute, John," Thorne said, his voice as smooth and cold as polished chrome. He walked around the Charger, trailing a finger through the dust on its hood. "And this... this relic? You really think this pile of scrap can compete in the Trans-Continental?"

He tossed a small, glowing data chip onto the workbench. "The coordinates for the starting point. Don't be late. I'd hate to have to clear out this workspace so soon."

Beside him sat a driver known only as "The Ghost," piloting a translucent vehicle that seemed to shimmer in and out of existence. On his other side was a Syndicate favorite, a brute named Jax who drove a massive, spiked rig that looked more like a siege engine than a racer.