Impulse

By Eva Muñoz

Welcome, Motor Heads, Rally Girls, and Hangers-On! It’s another wild ride here at the Gathering—the underground world of fast cars, crazy drivers, and partying all night long. If you’re here, it means you’ve broken curfew. Not something the ruling Mob of Terra One encourages, but we’re all in the same boat, so let’s rock it! As long as you’ve paid off your local Associate, you’ll be fine. Maybe.

Tonight’s race features racing royalty, ladies and gents! Let’s welcome seventeen-year-old Rebecca “RC” Camille, third in the Driver’s Index. She lives to race. Nothing but motor oil running through her veins, folks. Her aim? To be number one, beating out two of the boys she grew up with at the Open Arms orphanage. She’s lethal in her GT500KR. Nothing gets in her way. Not a sense of brotherhood. Not even love.

Her challenger tonight? A psychotic serial killer willing to stop at nothing to eliminate the competition. Can RC stop him before he kills his way to the top? Or will she need reinforcements from the authority we all love to hate? Remember, children, the Mob never gives away their help for free.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harmony Ink Press
• Release date: Mar 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781644056721

Eva Muñoz

Eva Muñoz loves dreaming of worlds filled with hot guys falling in love with each other. She believes that love is love is love and everyone has a right to find their person. Her love for writing began in high school. It was because her teacher complimented a story she had written that put her on the path she is on today. She would spin yarns on her father’s electric typewriter, bind the pages together, and bring the finished product to school for her classmate to pass around and swoon over. Little did she know at the time that writing would be a career she never knew she wanted. She may have taken a circuitous path toward her passion for writing, but when she finally made that decision to stick with it after countless rejections, she never looked back. A degree in creative writing helps too. When she’s not at her favorite coffee shop thinking up new worlds and characters to explore, you can find Eva in a classroom teaching creative writing of all things. Talk about passion meets day job. Today she is molding impressionable minds the way her teacher once did for her.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Blurb

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue

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Copyright

Impulse

By Eva Muñoz

Ten young drivers suit up to risk their lives in a deadly underground race called the Gathering, but only one will emerge victorious. If the dangerous course doesn’t kill them, other racers might. And even if they avoid the wrath of the Mob of Terra One, who controls it all, they still might not escape with their lives.

Because a killer is stalking the competitors, taking them out one by one.

Seventeen-year-old Rebecca RC Camille has clawed her way up from humble beginnings at the Open Arms orphanage, and she’s almost reached the top. She can’t let anything stand in her way now—not friendship or even love.

But she might be the only one who can put an end to a murderer’s bloody spree, and she must choose between ending the carnage and saving her own life through the race. But since she’s unlikely to escape both the killer and the Mob, is it any choice at all?

The race for the Impulse Cup must continue… even if the drivers are dodging bodies.

For Dad,

Gone but not forgotten.

Thank you for sharing your love for cars with me.

I miss you every second, every minute, every hour.

Acknowledgments

THIS YEAR has been particularly brutal, not just for me, but for my whole family. First, I lost the love my of life. Sweetie was the best cat in the world. I knew I had a limited time with her, but I never thought she would actually be gone. Follow that with my mother’s favorite cat, Garfield, passing away a few days later. We were reeling for a couple of months. Then my father gets sick with pneumonia and passes away. I’m not even mentioning the other things that’ve been happening to my family this year. Basically, it’s hard to think about being thankful in this moment.

But, no matter how much pain I am in, I can say that writing Impulse was one of the best experiences in my career as an author. This book calls to my car-loving heart. I first started loving cars because of my dad. He would always talk about his dream Mercedes and how he loved to own one. That dream finally came true a few years later.

Then my love for cars only grew when Sailor Uranus joined the Sailor Moon crew. She is my favorite because she was confident and loved racing. Because of this, my first thanks go to my dad and my second go to Sailor Uranus.

My third thanks go to Harmony Ink Press and Lynn West for taking interest on Impulse. It took me a few years to find the right home for this book and I’m thrilled that it will be released with Harmony Ink Press.

I’d also like to thank Nat for giving this book a great face. It’s always tricky creating a cover for a racing book because at the end of the day you don’t want the image to be of a car. When Nat mentioned The Fast and the Furious and Need for Speed, my heart began to beat faster. I knew at the end of the process the cover would be gorgeous.

Lastly, I’d like to thank all the people who supported my family during our hardest moments. I can’t name you all, but I am happy that you are many. I never think that anyone will help, which is why I do everything myself, but at our lowest moment, when I finally asked for help, all of you came to the rescue. I and my family are forever grateful.

Racing is a great mania

To which one must sacrifice everything,

Without reticence, without hesitation.

—Enzo Ferrari

Chapter One

THE STEEL tips of my boots click against the white marble. The surface gleams from light given by a massive wrought iron chandelier hanging above. Nothing occupies the cavernous space I stride across except for an ornately carved screen and an oxblood leather chair beyond—where the Bitterblade Mob Boss sits. Five people in Terra One know of his true identity, and I am not one of them. Maybe this is a good thing. Those who know the boss intimately have the tendency to die brutal deaths. Such is the consequence of being within the inner circle of power. I’m content with an outer orbit, as far removed from the center as possible. I race. That is my value to this family.

My mentor, Brody, on the other hand, by virtue of being Head of Security, is as close to the boss as it gets. I don’t envy him. He stands to one side of the screen. My gaze scans the rest of the receiving area. As far as I can tell, we three are the only ones in the room. I note the cameras on each corner of the ceiling. And if I’m not mistaken, there are at least a dozen armed men on standby behind doors that blend into the embossed wallpaper walls. One nod from Brody is all it takes to have this room overflowing with the best killers in our region. Knowing how he operates, they are probably the best killers in the entire continent. That being said, they don’t bother me. I drive the line between life and death nightly. On the asphalt, my life is in no one else’s hands but my own.

A couple of yards away from the screen and the silhouette of the man seated behind it, I drop to one knee. My fists rest on the floor, the burned caramel color of my skin a stark contrast to the white stone. As I bow my head, my hair, as black as a predawn sky, spills over my shoulders to pool beside my fists. I take comfort in the tactical knives inside my leather jacket, pressing against my rib cage. Their serrated edges can saw through bone in three seconds. I serve the Mob, of course. I have to protect myself. Not that I’m saying I need to in this instance. At least I hope I don’t have to. A meeting with the boss can mean a myriad of things. A majority of them death-related.

I steady my breathing by tracing the gray veins on the stone beneath me. In a matter of hours, I will be driving up Mount Giga. The exhibition race that will kick off the Impulse Cup is tonight. My palms sweat in anticipation. I’d been in the garage with Screw, my chief mechanic, adjusting the settings on my GT500 all morning. Her compressors have been acting up lately. I can’t have the most important part of my life in less than top shape before the Cup. She needs to be ready. Screw said to trust him when I got the call from Brody that the boss wanted a word. Took the words on penalty of death to get me to part with my baby.

My eyebrow twitches. I’m here, and no one is speaking. I can’t speak unless spoken to, so… I barely hold in the snort as I await the pleasure of the man I serve. Don’t get me wrong. I’d give my life for the sake of the boss. Everyone in the Bitterblade Mob would. I just have more important things to do than play guess what the boss wants.

RC, comes the sigh from the man behind the screen. I tense. Whenever he speaks, it’s always with a relaxed tone. He can order your execution sounding like he’s bored out of his mind. I’ve witnessed it. No one rises to the top of the Mob without at the very least having a bloodthirsty nature. In fact, the higher you are, the more psychotic you have to be. So let this be lesson one: to underestimate the boss’s casual tone can literally mean your death. It must get lonely when only five people know what you look like.

I continue to wait. Saying my name doesn’t equate to being given the leave to speak. For all I know he’s merely tasting my name on his tongue. He’s been known to do that. Another sigh, then the creak of chair springs. I don’t have to look to know he’s shifting his position. Can we please move this along? I have better things to do.

Despite the impertinent question polluting my head, I know I’d wait all day if it pleased the boss. As Brody once taught me, thoughts can only be dangerous once spoken. I learned to hold my tongue years ago. Speak when necessary. This is lesson number two.

How are preparations for the Impulse Cup going? he finally asks—his tone breathy, as if stifling a yawn.

As to be expected, sir, I say to the floor. Screw is currently adjusting the GT’s compression system.

I trust you have everything you need?

More than I could ask for, sir. The truth. As the boss’s lead driver, I can ask for the moon in the name of winning a race, and the Mob will move heaven and earth to pull the celestial body down to earth for me. Yet there is one slight problem. I flinch at the boss’s next words.

And yet you remain third in the rankings.

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste a distinct metallic tang. My rank is not from the lack of trying. The guys ranked first and second are beasts on the road. I swallow and formulate my response.

This year I will take down Ace and Bedlam for your pleasure, sir.

Chuckles reach my ears. As is expected of my driver. I have credits riding on you.

I’m tempted to say he has credits riding on all the drivers. Hedging his bets. It just so happens he has more riding on me. Betting is encouraged during the races. I’ve heard rumors the credits generated from nights at the Gathering actually fund Mob operations more than the protection credits taken from the citizens of Terra One monthly. Plus the races are the chief source of entertainment around here. Televised and commentated. All the top families of the Bitterblade Mob have a stable of racers. For some the races are their main source of income.

I suffer through another round of silence until the boss says, As you well know, Zamara has reached her majority.

I grimace, understanding where this meeting is actually going. The boss’s daughter is finally old enough to make her own decisions. This thought scares the motor oil out of me. My sincerest congratulations, sir. Please extend my deepest regret at not having been able to attend her eighteenth birthday.

Another chuckle. You were busy winning that downhill at Mount Giga against Star. What a grand race. You two fought like feral cats. I imagine him licking his front teeth. The memory of the race ignites my insides like a spark plug. I still haven’t forgiven Star for scratching my baby in her attempt to pass me at Suicide Curve. If she wasn’t the Underboss’s daughter, I would have slit her throat already. The boss’s second-in-command would not approve of the murder of his child, no matter how much she tests his patience. That victory paid for the entire overpriced party. I cannot complain.

Still I continue to wait for the inevitable. Knowing Zamara, there’s one thing she’d ask dear ol’ dad for on her birthday. I grit my teeth until the enamel squeaks. Unfortunately for me, the boss doesn’t stretch out my torment longer than he has to.

As you know, he begins as if it pains him to even bring up the topic. Zamara has been following your career closely. That girl has an unhealthy attachment to you. I hear the headshake that usually accompanies conversations involving the Mob’s precious first daughter. She wants to join you as navigator for this year’s Impulse Cup. My mouth opens to respond, but I quickly close it again when the boss continues. I’ve told her that she is an adult now. She has the right to make this decision for herself. I know how dangerous the Impulse Cup can be. If the body count from last year is any indication. What he leaves out is most of the driver fatalities came from Ace and Bedlam battling it out on the road. The most we could do was get out of their way. I still chafe at that. This year will be different. I plan on joining the fray. So I leave the choice up to you.

A lump forms in my throat. This is worse than I thought. It’s a classic doomed if you do, doomed if you don’t situation. Denying the boss’s daughter is like spitting on the boss’s face. I may as well sign my death certificate now to save the coroner the effort later. Saying yes means I’m putting Zamara’s safety in my hands. I have enough to worry about during the Impulse Cup. Adding babysitting to the list is like sugar in the gas tank. Basically, everything goes boom.

I guess I don’t have to remind you how much I love my daughter….

I swallow said lump, thorns and all, and make my decision. Sir, the Impulse Cup is no place for a novice. If I want to win against Ace and Bedlam, I need a navigator who will survive let alone help during key portions of the race. For me to do my job to the best of my abilities, I must respectfully decline having Zamara on my team.

The atmosphere in the room shifts. The calm dissipates, replaced by a heavy tension thick enough to cut through. I hold my breath. My heart stops. I don’t fear death. I stare the bastard in the face every time I get into my GT. At least at the speeds I drive, I die quick. In the hands of the boss and his expert torturers is a different story. They can keep me alive indefinitely. And in massive amounts of pain. Then, like streaks of lightning across the sky, booming laughter bounces off the walls. I hold in the instant relief. Laughter is no indication of my survival. I endure until the boss is reduced to huffing chuckles.

One thing I continue to admire about you, RC, is your balls, he says between gasps. You have a set that rivals Brody’s.

I let the grin slip at the compliment. My mentor sports a wicked scar down the length of his neck for his so-called balls. In my mind’s eye, I know the corner of Brody’s lips curl upward a fraction.

With all traces of his mirth gone, the boss dismisses me with the reminder of winning this year’s Cup. On my feet, I thump the center of my chest with a fist, then turn on my heels for the door, which also blends into the walls. It slides open when I near it.

A scowl forms on my features when I spot the girl standing at the end of the hallway I enter. Her brown hair falls in lush curls down her back and over her shoulders. The strands stop just above the swell of her breasts. The pink of her sweater matches the hue of her cheeks and lips. She studies me with keen eyes the shade of expensive jade. I rake my gaze over the entire length of her body, taking in the tightness of her jeans and the leather boots she stuffed them into. When my eyes return to her face, the pink has turned several shades darker.

My initial intention is to pass by without acknowledging her presence. I’ve been successful at it for years. Sadly, when I reach her, my temper snaps and I slap the wall beside her head. She gasps, leaning against the wall for support, as she looks up at me. I loom over her, inhaling the tantalizing scent of jasmine wafting from her skin. I close my eyes a moment, collecting my thoughts.

When I’m sure I won’t flay her alive, I stare into her eyes and ask, How dare you put me in that position with your father? Venom drips from my question. The way her shoulders jerk upward tells me she feels the sting.

She’s trembling as she says, You wouldn’t have said yes otherwise.

A savage grin stretches my mouth. I gesture toward the room I left with a tilt of my head. Who says I said yes in there.

The tip of her tongue darts over her lower lip while sweat dots the upper. You refused?

Zamara…. I exhale all my anger, weak against the wide-eyed disappointment she treats me to. No wonder she has her father, the most powerful man in Terra One, wrapped around her pinky. I won’t deny the beauty of the boss’s daughter. She’s grown into a magnificent woman. For an insane second, I imagine bridging the gap between us for a taste of those plump lips. The image of my head on a spike for defiling the first daughter forces me to focus. The Impulse Cup is the most grueling race of the year. You know all races lead up to the marathon. What makes you think you’d make a worthy navigator?

Determination enters her eyes. I’m suddenly aware of her body heat and the curves inches from touching mine. She wouldn’t be the boss’s daughter if she didn’t have backbone, I’ll give her that much.

I’ve studied all your races, RC. I know how you drive better than Mac, she says, still trembling like the last leaf clinging to a branch against the autumn wind.

The mention of my garage manager/race analyst reminds me of my responsibilities. I step back, creating the space needed to think clearly. I flip my hair over one shoulder and sigh. Watching my races is different from actually being in the car with me. I’m sorry, Zamara, I can’t be held responsible for your life during the Cup. I pin her with a withering glare the second her lips part. I mean it. This year I plan on taking Ace and Bedlam down. I can’t do that with someone like you.

Someone like me?

Inexperienced. I throw the word over my shoulder as I head for the bank of elevators at the end of the hall. It’s better this way.

For the entire ride down to the lobby, I convince myself of the merits of my decision. Zamara is better off staying away from the races. Considering her station, the most she can do is watch. The cab doors part with their distinctive ding. I step out into the lobby, bare but for the front desk and a round table with a single stem of orchids curling out of a clay pot. I pause to rub the white velvet petals. Yes, I made the right decision. The boss wouldn’t have let me leave if he’d really been adamant about Zamara tagging along.

Across the street, over at Punishment Square, a gathered group catches my attention. The wide space the boss uses to teach those who have wronged him a lesson was empty when I stepped into Bitterblade HQ. I glance at the austere woman manning the front desk. She seems just as curious, but her duty to her post keeps her behind the desk.

My own curiosity begging cessation, I head for the revolving door. Once outside, a gust of wind whips my hair into my face. I pause, flicking the strands into place behind me. Then, looking right and left, I cross Main Street into Punishment Square. In my mind, I sift through the announcements I read this morning. No mention of a public punishment. The boss always makes a spectacle of those displayed in the square. Since I don’t recall any such news, the crowd gathered baffles me. The group stands unmoving and staring at the ground. I push my way to the front and immediately cover my nose and mouth. The air is putrid. The fetid stench of decay clogs my nostrils, hot as it enters the lungs. Without thinking twice, I take out my phone and press on the first name in my contacts list. The person at the other end picks up on the first ring.

Brody, I say, my voice muffled by my arm, send a cleanup team to Punishment Square.

On the tiled floor lies a naked guy, spread out. His mocha skin pale, lips blue, a fog in his once hazel eyes. Someone pulled out his entrails from a gaping hole on his stomach. No blood pooled around him despite the carnage. What catches my attention the most is the word carved across his chest.

Hubris, I say into my phone.

The line immediately goes dead.

Chapter Two

BRODY’S BICEPS bulge when he folds his arms in front of his chest. He cuts a stark figure, legs apart, brooding over the body on the autopsy slab. The flickering fluorescent light above us casts dark shadows over the sharp angles of his face. From where I stand beside him, I have a perfect view of his scar. The gash begins at his jaw and slashes downward in a jagged line that disappears into his collar and stands out from his swarthy complexion. The suit jacket he wears over his crisp white shirt hugs his back tightly, exposing the contours of hard muscle honed from years of maintaining peace. A peace always in flux as evidenced by the disembowelment display the cleanup crew finished clearing. With a tired sigh that exposes a moment of vulnerability, my mentor rubs a hand over his shaved head until he reaches the back of his neck. He stops there and squeezes.

After my parents died in a deal gone wrong, Brody took me in, taught me everything I know about protecting myself. He was my dad’s best friend. I like referring to him as my mentor, but he’s definitely more. Like an uncle from another mother. He brought me to Open Arms Orphanage, where I learned to race. I don’t just owe him my life. I owe him my soul—that of someone who lives for nothing but racing. I’d die for him if he asked. Yet I know he never will. Stubborn old fool.

You’re getting old, Brody, I say in a deadpan tone.

Damn high blood pressure. It will be the death of me. Another sigh follows his words.

You? Die? A snort leaves my nose. I don’t think so. Even Death is afraid of the great Brody ‘Slash’ Jenkins.

I succeed in squeezing a chuckle out of the usually serious man. The valley between his bushy eyebrows eases a fraction. Although his ebony irises, as dark and fathomless as mine, stay piercing. A majority of his attention remains on what we’ve been looking at for the past fifteen minutes before I broke the silence. The coroner ruled the cut running along the victim’s abdomen as the cause of death. The once-gaping wound has since been stitched. What disturbs me the most is the knowledge that the word on his chest was done perimortem. Meaning the poor guy was still alive when whoever killed him carved Hubris. It spans the entire width of his pectorals. I have to give points to the sick bastard for perfect penmanship. The precision of the cuts are works of art. Even the coroner noted how sharp the blade must have been. Suddenly my own knives strapped to my sides chafe. Yes,