Rolling Start

By morning, the garage had transformed into a hive of quiet motion.

The Supra sat center-stage, freshly tuned, new tires glinting under the ceiling lights like it knew it had something to prove. Both garage doors were open, letting in a cold breeze and the smell of asphalt.

Outside, a flatbed idled, a couple of cars already loaded—one under a tarp, another mid-restoration.

Ryoji stood at the far end, pager beeping before I saw him approach the old man tightening something under the AE95’s raised hood. Their voices clipped and precise, as always.

“Ground line?”

“In the truck,” the old man grunted, not looking up.

That was it. As always. Minimalist poetry, the dialect of men who spoke more with their hands than their mouths.

Meanwhile, I was loading our bags into the Supra’s rear. Or trying to. One of the bags was heavier than I remembered, and I’d already bumped my knee on the bumper twice. My coordination hadn’t returned yet—not fully. Not after the night I’d had.

Sendo appeared from the passenger side, having just finished his final checks, and leaned casually against the car like he was posing for a photo shoot that didn’t exist. He had that posture—too confident, trying too hard not to look like he was trying at all.

“So…” he said, stretching the word like it was a yawn. “Is Ryoji doing a decent job as your security detail?”

I looked at him.

Raised one eyebrow.

“Tempting offer. But I think I’ll stick with the guy who smoked you backwards—in a fifteen-year-old Corolla.”

Sendo winced like I’d flicked him right in the ego. “Oof. Okay. Low blow.”

“And,” I added, raising a brow, “you challenged us. Ryoji even told you no.”

He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay, technically… that did happen.”

Behind us, I could hear faint metallic clicks—Ryoji had cracked open the panel and was connecting a small handheld terminal to the wall unit. It looked like something out of a Cold War spy movie—cables, blinking lights, coded switches.

From the tone of his voice, I could tell he was speaking to Hiro. Calm, clipped phrases in code, like they’d done this a hundred times before.

Sendo sighed and leaned back against a tool cabinet, clearly trying to reassemble his pride.

“I try, okay? It’s just—hard. I mean, look at this lineup.”

I folded my arms, already expecting a monologue.

“You’ve got Granpa, who’s probably the best mechanical engineer in Japan, worked on actual F1 engines. Then there’s Hiro, who’s basically an alien—like, literally a genius from another planet, and I don’t even understand what he does for a living half the time. Then you’ve got Ryoji, who’s, what? A superspy-killer built like an ’80s action star and the emotional availability of a concrete wall.”

I tilted my head. “And?”

Sendo pointed at himself with both thumbs, dramatically underwhelmed. “And then there’s me. I’ve got a ponytail and decent mechanical skills. That’s it. That’s the résumé.”

I squinted at him, unimpressed. “And now you’re fishing for pity points?”

He blinked, caught off guard.

Behind us, Ryoji was still speaking in those tight, clipped bursts—military syllables that probably made perfect sense to Hiro on the other end of the line. I caught fragments like “…switch the relay… confirmed ground route… three-hour margin,” and something about grid coordinates that made me feel like we were living in a satellite map.

Sendo, of course, missed all of that. He had apparently recovered from his self-inflicted dignity collapse and was already gearing up for Part Two of his talk show.

“Well,” he started again, suddenly grinning, “at least there’s Reika. I know you met her.”

His voice shifted—suddenly reverent, starry-eyed, and way too loud.

“She’s not technically part of the operation,” he went on, hand gestures flailing like he was explaining constellations, “but she’s, like… the most insane combo of brains, presence, and those legs on that Ducati? Not to mention she rides like she’s got a missile guidance system in her spine.”

I stared at him.

“You mean the greatest woman in all of Japan?” I deadpanned, dragging the words like I was quoting the cover of a fan magazine.

“Yes! Exactly!” he said, missing the sarcasm entirely. “And she talks like a movie character. Every time she opens her mouth I forget English and half of Japanese. She’s… she’s art.”

I sighed. Loudly.

He crouched near the Supra’s wheel, finishing up something near the fender, and continued like I hadn’t just given him the verbal side-eye of the century.

“Though I mean, let’s be honest. She’s way out of my league.” He flailed one hand, nearly knocking over a canister. “I might—might—have a shot with her new sidekick though. Chika. Total mystery girl. Bit of a gremlin. But cute. They ride together! Like this unstoppable motorcycle duo of doom!”

I was trying to load my duffel into the Supra’s rear seat while he babbled on, and somewhere around unstoppable motorcycle duo of doom I started fantasizing about how peaceful the drive would be once we were far, far away from this garage.

“I’m starting to think you’re not old enough for caffeine in the morning,” I muttered.

But Sendo just kept going, like I hadn’t said anything at all.

“I mean, Reika’s just… she’s unreal. All elegance and danger wrapped into one. Nobody can match her pace. Nobody.

Well—except maybe Ryoji. Maybe.

He’s got that quiet, stormy thing going on. The type that doesn’t say much but somehow always ends up the last one standing. You can see why she’d go for that.

I mean, even Momochi tried, you know? Yeah, our chameleon man himself—Mr. Disguise, Mr. Smooth Operator. He went full tilt once, showed up at one of her galas dressed like a Milanese count, roses and all. Reika looked him dead in the eye and said, ‘I don’t date fiction.’”

Sendo snorted. “He didn’t come out of the dressing room for a week. But with Ryoji—I bet she’d—.”

I slammed the hatch shut.

Too loud.

Sendo flinched. I turned to him with a polite, pointed smile that could’ve cut a tire.

“Let’s not finish that sentence,” I said, syrupy-sweet.

He blinked. “Which sentence?”

“The one where you turn Ryoji and Reika into a tragic romance written in cigarette smoke and leather jackets.”

He backed off slightly. “Right. Okay. Message received. I didn’t say anything.”

But then, under his breath—like he just couldn’t help himself—

“I mean… it’s not like she’s ever shown interest in anyone else. Ryoji was the only one who ever really had a shot.”

I froze.

“What.”

He looked up. Regret already on his face. “That was—uh—nothing. That wasn’t a real sentence.”

I was in front of him in three steps.

“Explain. Right now. What do you mean, he ‘had a shot’?”

Sendo looked around like there might be an exit that hadn’t existed a second ago. “I—look, I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“Oh, no. You absolutely did. You dropped a very loaded comment in front of me. So I suggest you unload it properly.”

“I mean—uh—it wasn’t official or anything,” he stammered. “Nobody ever confirmed anything, okay? It was all just… vibes.”

“Vibes?”

“Yeah, like… looks exchanged. Long silences. High-speed night rides. The usual.”

I stared at him. Hard.

He shrank a little. “Okay maybe there was a rumor. A few years ago. People said they—well, that they almost—you know…”

“No, I don’t know. And now you’re going to tell me everything, or I swear I’ll make up a story so vivid your boss will believe you said you dated her.”

Sendo held his hands up. “It was a long time ago!! And no one talks about it anymore!”

I narrowed my eyes. “Because no one wants to or because it’s classified?”

Before he could answer, a click cut through the air—sharp, final. Ryoji had just snapped his terminal shut.

Both Sendo and I turned instinctively.

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked across the garage.

The old man was already watching him from near the truck. One brief gesture—two fingers slicing across the neck, then down.

A cut.

Or escape.

Or both.

“Sendo!” the old man barked. “Load the Corolla. Now.”

No hesitation. The kid flinched and scrambled toward the AE95, toolbox clanking as he moved. The Old Man and Ryoji crossed paths halfway, and I caught a flash of their exchange—quiet, efficient, like they’d been through this rhythm before.

“Stay sharp, boy,” the old man muttered as he passed.

“Take care, gramps,” Ryoji replied, already walking toward me.

There was something clipped in his stride now. That loose, half-bored posture had evaporated. His shoulders were squared, eyes narrowed—focused. Not panicked. But wired in.

He turned to me, opened the passenger door with one hand. “Hop in. Now.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, heart already tightening in my chest.

He didn’t answer.

Behind us, Sendo was dragging the Corolla up the ramp of the truck, but he wasn’t done talking. “Wait—what’s going on?!”

Ryoji stopped just long enough to glance over his shoulder.

“Stick with gramps. Don’t stop until you get to Osaka. It’s gonna be okay.”

Then he was in the driver’s seat, engine turning, and all my senses went on high alert. My body moved before I could overthink it—legs in, door shut, belt fastened.

I looked over at him. He didn’t look back.

But whatever he’d heard on that call?

It changed everything.

The Supra roared off, tires clawing the asphalt. Behind us, the garage gates clanged shut. In the side mirror, I saw Sendo barely finish securing the Corolla, half-hopping, half-sprinting after the moving truck as the old man rolled off like a tank on a mission.

“Did he just leave without him?” I blurted.

“No,” Ryoji said, not taking his eyes off the road. “That’s their routine.”

“Doesn’t seem very safe.”

“It is. Just not for anyone chasing them.”

The Supra didn’t lurch—it surged, smooth and controlled, but fast. Not showy-fast like yesterday. This was surgical, precise. A silent understanding that we had minutes to spare, not hours.

We cut through the edge of Matsumoto, tail-lights blurring past shuttered storefronts and late-night ramen signs. The city thinned. Suburbs slipped by. Then trees. Then the mountain road again.

I didn’t want to ask.

But I had to.

“What happened?”

Ryoji’s fingers tightened just slightly on the wheel. “Krysha’s team is en route to Matsumoto. They probably found the garage.”

Cold air ran down my spine.

Just hearing that name again made me shrink in my seat.

“They tracked us?”

“Not a chance. We either have a mole or they have satellite support. Either way we move.”

The Supra’s engine shifted gears, its growl dropping into something deeper as we left the town behind.

We were heading east.

Toward Ueda.

Then… the Wada Pass.

I wrapped my arms around myself.

The warmth of the banter, of stupid teddy bear pajamas and teasing ponytails, vanished like mist in a headlight beam.

We were running again.