Hover Car Racer Part 39

Up through Queens and it was 1.7 seconds.

Then over the East River and down through the Bronx and the lead was down to 1.5 seconds.

The Bug said something.

'I know! I know!' Jason said. 'If I'm right, this one's gonna go right down to the wire. That's what I'm banking on! The home straight on the last lap is the only place I can get him!'

Then the two cars swept around Yankee Stadium and headed south, into the confetti-filled canyons of the city for the last time.

And here Jason made his move.

As he'd done the entire race, he gained on Xavier amid the right-angled turns of the city.

The gap between them narrowed: 1.2 seconds...

1.1 seconds...

1.0 second...

As he banked and swerved through the buildings of the Upper West Side, Jason saw the Speed Razor through the

veil of falling confetti - saw it getting nearer and nearer. Hopefully Xavier was expecting this, having seen it the

whole race.

And that was the key, Jason thought. This was all about what Xavier expected.

Then the two leaders shot across Central Park at the 79th St Transverse - and when they blasted out of Central

Park on the Fifth Avenue side, the lead was less than a second.

Now there were only about twenty seconds of racing left. They came down through the Upper East Side, through the confetti snow, Xavier taking turns perfectly - impossible to pa.s.s - Jason edging closer.

And then the final turn onto Fifth Avenue came into view.

'Here we go...' Jason said.

The Speed Razor and the Argonaut hit the left-hander almost together.

As they did so, Jason swung in low, lower than usual, diving through the confetti, looking like he was going to go under the Speed Razor.

But he wasn't going under it - he was just aiming for its blind spot, and with all the confetti floating around, Xavier's navigator was more blind than usual.

The two cars. .h.i.t the straight.

And then Xavier did it.

Just as Jason had hoped.

Three hundred metres short of the Finish Line, he punched his fist into the air in triumph.

Just as he had done in each of his victories at the Sponsors' Tournament.

And at the Italian Run.

And whenever he'd won a race at Race School. Xavier, as Jason had noticed during their study sessions, had a habit of celebrating prematurely. As so, at that moment, Jason jammed every thruster forward.

It made for an astonishing sight.

Xavier in the Speed Razor, roaring down Fifth Avenue to the cheers of the crowds, blasting through the confetti rain, with his fist thrown into the air in triumph...

...before suddenly, there was the Argonaut, zipping alongside him from out of nowhere!

And as the two cars came to the crumpled piles of broken cars on either side of the home straight, Jason darted ahead of Xavier and whip-weaved quickly in front of him!

The crowd gasped at the audacity of it.

Xavier's eyes boggled.

And the Argonaut roared through the narrow gap between the two piles of smashed-up hover cars and shot like a rocket across the Finish Line.

In.

First.

Place.

CHAPTER FIVE.

It was the photo that had done it.

The photo from Jason's only victory over Xavier Xonora - his photo-finish win in Race 25.

Gazing closely at the photo the evening before the Challenger Race, Jason had seen something very peculiar.

Whereas before he had only ever seen the nose of the Argonaut sneaking across the Finish Line inches ahead of

the Speed Razor, on this occasion, he had seen something else entirely.

There in the photo, frozen forever in that moment in time, Jason had seen Xavier's fist punching the air. Xavier, thinking he had won when in fact he had not, had prematurely pumped his fist into the sky.

And so Jason had formulated his plan - he would use Xavier's perfect pit crew against him, allow them to feed

Xavier information about his increasing lead, and then on the last lap Jason would pounce. He would gain on Xavier over the course of the final lap and then overtake him on the home straight, the one place Xavier dropped his guard, the one place on a race course where he was vulnerable.

The New York crowds roared with both delight and disbelief at such a daring strategy.

Jason had caught everyone by surprise.

By the time he swung into the pits, every television crew in the city was camped outside his pit bay.

After a well-earned team hug with Sally and the Bug behind the closed doors of their garage, he came out to face the media.

'Jason! Jason! Did you plan it from the start?'

'Jason! How did you know Xavier would make such a rookie mistake?'

'Jason! How does it feel to know that you just qualified for the New York Masters?'

It was the last question that caught Jason short.

'It feels...great,' he said. 'Only I...I don't have a licensed team to sponsor me. And without a team, I can't race.'

'You can race under my name anytime, my young friend!' a familiar voice boomed from somewhere nearby.

Umberto Lombardi stood behind the a.s.sembled media throng, grinning from ear to ear. He spread his arms wide.

'I used to have a second car, but some young driver destroyed it in Italy earlier this year! If you're prepared to race in your own car, young Jason, you can race under my licence in the Masters Series!'

The media swung their microphones to Jason.

But just as Jason was about to answer, another voice rose above the throng.

'I have another suggestion,' the voice said.

Everyone turned - to see a very well-dressed man in a suit standing beside Lombardi. He was younger than Lombardi, mid40s, American, with perfectly groomed hair, and he wore a suit that screamed money.

He was one of the most well-known figures in racing.

He was Antony Nelson, head of the Lockheed-Martin Factory Team.

'For I do have a spare car,' Nelson said imperiously. 'My team was ready to run a third car in the Masters, but sadly, our first-choice racer here' - he glanced across at Xavier's pit bay - 'didn't make the grade in the Challenger. You did, Mr Chaser. As such, the Lockheed-Martin Racing Team would be honoured if you would race for us in the New York Masters Series.'

The offer hung in the air.

The media people froze, their eyes locked on Jason.

Alone on the stage, Jason gazed out over the crowd of reporters and photographers - saw their eager hungry faces, hungry for the story.

Then he looked at Nelson and Lombardi - and found a study in contrasts. One small and slick, the other broad and loud. One had a top-tier car waiting for him, the other had nothing but an International Racing Federation Licence.

And one had eaten greasy chicken burgers with Jason...and the other, quite obviously, hadn't eaten a chicken burger in years.

Jason took a deep breath.