Eric let them sleep in, since they didn't have the same early departure time as the other crews. Dillon didn’t feel slow and fuzzy like he thought he would be. Kayla was already in the restaurant with Eric, nibbling on eggs and potatoes. Breakfast seemed to be simple fare again, and he wasn't going to argue with scrambled eggs, home fries, and sausages.

  Eric laid his tablet on the table, showing a map of the final leg. "Now, these roads are pretty safe, so you shouldn’t have any problems driving alone to Salt Lake City. You’ll recharge in Salinas and after that, it should be a straight shot to the arena.

  Dillon pointed to where a road separated from the highway. "We can't cut through here? It would shave almost an hour off our time."

  "And earn you a four-hour penalty for leaving the route. Technically, they could even disqualify us. I'm sure the Angels would love that. And our eye in the sky reporter would certainly jump on that juicy tidbit. No, we follow the route, and you make the best time you can."

  Kayla got a faraway look in her eyes. "I don't know. Maybe Dillon can sweet talk Rebekah for us. I think she likes him."

  He glared at her over a mouthful of potatoes. "She likes me, alright. She'd like to see me roasted over an open flame and served at her award ceremony for whatever they give reporters. Fine, Eric. No deviations. At least here I can put the pedal down. Kayla can even catch a nap or something."

  "Somebody has to navigate."

  Eric laughed and stood up with his coffee cup. "Play nice, kids. I'm going to check on the car. Meet me in the front in twenty minutes for final checks."

  ***

  Broomfield, Colorado

  Vernon answered the phone on the first ring, recognizing the phone number on the display. "Tell me everything is in place."

  The smile on Jerrod's face came through in his voice. "All set, Mr. Grant. We have the badges for our people and the gear's all ready. Those of us in the competition just got our show times. Our man on the inside was able to get most of us selected in the lottery. Only a few slots went to outsiders."

  "That's damned good to hear, Jerrod. Now, this is our first public showing against the AADA in many years. What happened in Grand Junction can be passed off as the Red River's doing. You guys and gals are our real opening salvo. Make it count."

  "Yes, sir! All of us are chomping at the bit to get a shot at those pansies. They won't know what hit them."

  "And the most beautiful thing is we're doing it to them with their own competition. Alright, Jerrod. Make us proud. The Brotherhood is behind you one hundred percent."

  The old man hung up the phone and stood to look at the digital map on the large screen television. It showed Colorado, Deseret, Montana, Wyoming, and the Dakotas. Those damn fools at the AADA were selling subscriptions to the link on their webpage. Only the announced legs were highlighted, although Sturgis had a big yellow star next to it. The progress of each competing vehicle was marked in different colors, and clicking on the car opened a small popup with the crew’s information. With that information in hand, it was child’s play to learn more about each person in the rally.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  They won't announce the next leg for another day or two. Given the scope of the map, it's sure to run through Montana. Even if they dip into Wyoming for a bit, they have to be at Sturgis in time for the finale.

  He traced several routes with his finger, making mental calculations on distance and time. No doubt Jerrod would do some damage, but he'd learned in his career not to put all his armor on one side. Besides, the Brotherhood was strongest in Wyoming and Montana. So let them think they'd succeeded in Salt Lake and that the BLUDs weren't a threat after that. There were others he could call upon to chip away at these so-called racers.

  ***

  Westbound I-70, Deseret

  Dillon found he was enjoying the drive on the open highway. He could almost slip into a Zen-like state while he drove, feeling the road in his fingers through the steering wheel. The miles clicked away with steady regularity, in contrast with the social feeds. Those were quiet, with only the occasional comment of support from their fans. There had been a brief burst of activity earlier, when Kayla posted their thanks to the Deseret soldiers who'd helped them out. After that, there'd been almost nothing since.

  That was fine for now. Keeping up with the fans and their comments during the earlier parts of the event felt weird. It was almost like doing a slow-motion interview, except a camera wasn't pointing in his face and an earnest reporter wasn't asking him questions that didn't seem to have a right answer. The fans wanted to know simpler things about the car, its weapons, and how different this was from an arena event. He knew how to handle those or pass them off to Kayla if he was busy or unsure. She knew the most about the car anyway, and they'd lost track of the number of in-depth technical threads on the car.

  His only regret on the lack of distractions was that there was nothing else to keep him from thinking about the upcoming event. The AADA hadn't released any details, only that it would be in the Salt Lake Seagull Stadium and that they wouldn't be using their competition cars. While that might be comforting to know they wouldn't have to chance the loss of their vehicle, the complete unknown was really eating at him. Coupled with the nearly two-hour time penalty, Dillon's mind couldn't help but run through any possible scenarios that his brain could conjure up. He'd been in numerous events, from counting laps to collecting points, and any or none of them might be in play. The AADA could have something else in mind, something they'd never done before.

  He worried his way through the recharge in Salinas, lost in thought while Kayla took care of the plugging and unplugging. He didn't catch the look she sent him when she crawled back in, or the first time she called his name.

  "Dillon!"

  "Sorry, Sammy," he said automatically. Once they were done, he'd pulled away from the charging station and got back on the freeway without conscious thought, hands and eyes moving in practiced motions.

  Then he realized what he'd said. "Um, sorry bout that. He used to call my name just like that when I was lost in thought."

  "You've been lost in thought for the last fifty miles. What's going on?" Her voice was just a little bit sharp, and there was an undertone of something else.

  "It's the event tomorrow. Without any details, I'm not sure what we'll face. That really worries me."

  She pulled up an interior picture of Seagull Stadium, mirroring the display over his navigation screen. "What do you think they're going to have us do?"

  "That's my problem. I can think of so many different styles, and I have nothing that points me towards any of them. In a regular competition, they announce the event and the players ahead of time. I usually start planning my strategy a day or two before, so I'm ready the day of. All stadiums have their own quirks, and it pays to know them. I haven't competed in Seagull before, and that also worries me. Some of the others might have, and that could make a difference."

  "I have a database of the last five years of AADA events in the two Denver arenas. Who competed, who won, and how the event was scored. Can we use that to narrow things down, given what we know of Seagull Stadium?" The picture on his screen was replaced by a folder view, showing events by month and by stadium.

  The racing thoughts in his head hit the brakes, and he stared at the screen. A smile began to grow on his face. "Kayla, this is going to sound weird, but this is even better than your gunnery."

  "People sometimes tell me I gather too much data and there's no way I can possibly use it all." The smugness in her voice was unmistakable.

  "Laugh in their face the next time someone tells you that."