So I don't get sued;

This story is loosely based on events from the Universal Pictures film 'The Fast and the Furious'. The majority of characters are my own creation, but some characters used or referred to belong to Rob Cohen, Neal H. Moritz, Gary Scott Thompson, Erik Bergquist and David Ayer. All brand names belong to their respective owners and should thank me for free advertisement.

Seriously, just one car would be enough.

Author's note;

This story was first published in original form way back on November 18th, 2002, which means it started even before 2 Fast 2 Furious was released, old or what? Although this story is essentially the same, this new version (let's call it a director's cut) is tighter, sharper, more focused and above all faster. If anyone's read the original then I really hope you stick around for this one too, this engine's still got some nitro left in it. If you're new here then thanks for taking a look, and I hope you get drawn in and enjoy reading the story as much as I enjoy writing it. If you feel like getting in touch please write a review, email me at fixer_writer10 y a h o o . c o . u k, or find me on Twitter at fixer_writer.

You've got death-defying heroes, nefarious bad guys, gleaming cars, blazing speed and blockbuster action, what more do you need? So whether you're new or returning, take a seat, grab the wheel and buckle up...

THE FAST AND THE FURIOUS:

OVERDRIVE

"Racing is life. Anything before or after is just waiting." - Steve McQueen

"They call me the seeker,

I've been searching low and high.

I won't get to get what I'm after,

'Til the day I die."

- The Who, 'The Seeker'.

CHAPTER 1:

THE END

"You a cop?"

The bar is called 'El Gato Negro'. It is different from most other bars in that the majority of the customers are outside.

"Huh?"

Mostly Latinos, they stand in the parking lot or sit at worn wooden tables along the nearside wall, groups of them surrounding brightly coloured, supercharged, upgraded, tuned, modified, tweaked, badass, super-fly, imported performance cars. Rice rockets.

"I said, are you a cop?"

Hondas. Mazdas. Mitsubishis.

"Do I look like a cop to you?"

People admire paintwork, body kits, in car entertainment (ICE) systems, computers, Nitrous Oxide systems, interiors, alloy wheels, but most of all, engines.

"You tell me. Hell, these days, I don't know what the cops look like. I'll tell you something though, when they ain't trying to bust our asses, they can look just like you and me."

Engines. That's what makes these cars so special. Paint, wax and buff your car all you want, because when it really comes down to it, all that matters here is how fast you are.

"Uh, no, I'm not a... What makes you think I'm a cop anyway?"

Do it right, and it's a quarter mile in a blink of an eye.

"You ask too many questions. I ain't ever seen you before, and you're all up in my face asking questions about people. That's what makes me think you're a cop."

Do it wrong...well don't even think about doing it wrong. You do that, and there's no point in even going out there. Just hand your two thousand dollars to the next guy and go home.

"I'm just interested, you know? I'm from out of town."

A few blocks away, the skyline is dominated by a vast industrial plant. The warning lights on its towers and pylons are artificial stars against the night sky, just as the cars are artificial comets on the road. The air is filled with roaring engines and their threats of intent, while speakers attempt to drown each other out with thumping bass and soaring harmonies. There is no oxygen, only a mix of exhaust fumes and burning rubber, for that is what keeps these people truly alive.

"Out of town, huh? That ain't making it any better."

Just another Saturday night in Los Angeles.

He helds his hands up, palms open. "Hey, I was just told by a guy at the bar that if I wanted to speak to someone about racing, you were the guy. Waitaminute, you are Hector Hernandez, ain't you?"

The shaven-headed Latino man eyed the stranger standing in front of him; tall, short black hair, creased jeans and T-shirt, bottle of coke in one hand. His face was lean and handsome enough, with one or two days worth of thin dark stubble on his jaw, his mouth curved up into a smile. He could have been anywhere from his late teens to early twenties, carrying a relaxed gait.

"Maybe I am Hector Hernandez. Who's askin'?"

"Matt Reilly." said the stranger, offering his hand.

"Typical white-boy name. Well, Matt Reilly," said Hector, shaking his hand, "I guess I am the man when it comes to racing. And even if you are a cop, I figure you don't want me cos I'm legit now. Trying to break into the NIRA circuit, you hear about that?"

Matt nodded, trying his best to look completely enthralled in what the Hispanic man was saying. He'd already heard two things about Hector; one, he was a veteran of the LA racing scene, and two, he did not get bored of talking about himself. "NIRA, huh? So why'd you give up the street racing?" he asked, trying to engage a conversation that he could find some use in, find some information, leverage. No point listening to some dreamer go on about his racing ambitions that were never going to happen. Matt had seen guys like Hector before, a dime a dozen, all convinced their big break was coming, only an hour, a day, a week away. He was yet to see one of these dreamers make it big.

Hector smiled, "See, mano? You do ask questions like a cop." He gestured to a free chair at his table. "Maybe if you had a man's drink as well, instead of a little girl's soda."

Matt inwardly winced, covering his reaction with a laugh. "I suppose, I like to keep my head clear," he said, settling into the seat. "Trying to get into the NIRA circuit can't pay well, does it? I'd rather keep on racing and make a few G's a night." It was an abrupt change of topic, but in this instance, this subject, that was fine as far as Matt was concerned. Besides, anything to keep the subject on Hector long enough for him to spill some useful information.

Hector took a swig of beer. "Some things are worth more than a few G's a night."

"Like not getting busted?"

"Like being alive."

"You serious?" Matt had seen a good few blowouts and crashes, but never actually anyone getting killed. Well, maybe not in while actually racing. "I didn't think you guys got so scared on the West Coast."

"A couple years back," said Hector, "This guy shows up from out of town, calls himself Brian. Decent enough guy, drove pretty well, most people liked the son of a bitch. Anyway, he hooks up with a guy called Dom Toretto and his crew, but only it turns out that Brian's an undercover cop."

"Shit." winced Matt.

"Damn right," said Hector. "Whole thing ends up with Dom's crew in prison, in the ground or running to Mexico, or Rio or some shit, what's the difference, right?"

Matt nodded, suppressing a smile. I'll take Geography for 200, he thought.

"Yeah, shame man, waste of good talent. Dom was seriously good, you know? Son of a bitch was the best I ever seen, after me of course."

"So who's the best now?"

"The best, huh? Why, you looking to beat the fastest man on the streets?"

"Something like that. Is this him?" Matt laid a wrinkled sheet of paper on the table in front of Hector. A computer printout of a page from a street racing website, it showed a young man, early to mid-twenties, grinning smugly for the camera. He looked like a male model; handsome, immaculately groomed, and brimming with confidence, maybe arrogance. A group of beautiful bikini-clad women posed with him as if he were a rock star, clutching at his body. The caption below the photo read: 'Sean Westwood, King of L.A.'

Hector studied the photo. "Yeah, that's him. And I can tell you right now, you ain't gonna beat him."

"You ain't seen me drive," said Matt seriously.

"Don't have to. That yours?" Hector pointed to a black Toyota Supra a few feet away. The decals, though dusty and dirty, were amazing. Painted flames streaked down the sides of the car, gradually fading from black through deep scarlet, red through orange to yellow. The Veilside bodykit was muscular and gave the car wide wheel arches, accommodating the 20-inch O.Z 'Chrono' rims in silver.

"Uh, yeah," said Matt. "She might look a little beat up and rough, but..."

"I don't need to know what engine you got, what mods you got, cos it don't matter." said Hector suddenly. "Sean Westwood drives a badass Dodge Viper, an' that's good enough to beat you anyway, without the ton of upgrades and NOS he's got in it. And.."

Matt shook his head, ready to jump in, "A Viper's heav..."

"...And there's a bunch of racers lined up to take him on. They'll be pretty pissed at the guy who thinks he can come in and just take on the big dog, esé."

"Tell me about it," Matt replied. In the short time he'd been in LA, he'd had pretty much the same reaction, some more aggressively clear in their statements.

"I mean it, Westwood don't race too often neither, so there's guys out there that have been waiting months to have a shot at him."

"He afraid to race or something?"

"Nah, he only takes on who he thinks is worthy enough", Hector sneered, draining the remains of his beer. "Makes racers duke it out for the right to race him."

"Like boxing. Goddamn title challenger..." Two things were clear to Matt; Hector had never made it to even take on Westwood in a one-on-one, and secondly, this was going to be way harder than he'd already anticipated.

The empty bottle was slapped down on the scored wooden tabletop with a dull, hollow thunk. "So you think you're worthy enough then? You just think you can walk in here, past all the best drivers in LA, and take him on?"

"Yeah."

Hector stared at Matt's steely glare for a second before bursting into a full belly laugh, attracting looks from most of the Gato's customers. "Man, I thought you was crazy when we met, now I know it. Fine, give it a shot, but don't come cryin' to me when Westwood tells you to bail. Or when someone pops you in the mouth for trying to skip the line."

He shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"For some reason, I ain't surprised at that, man. No offence."

Matt held a hand up. "So Westwood's that good?"

"He ain't chopped liver. Hell, I only seen him beat once in L.A, and the best drivers in the country are here."

The comment perked Matt's attention. "So who beat him? Can you introduce me to the guy?"

Hector shook his head. "It was Dom Toretto that beat him. And you ain't no Dom Toretto."

"Great. Anything else I need to know?" Matt asked sourly.

"You want more, how about you wait for the TV movie of the week about him? I'm sure they'll have some asshole model play him real well. He drives damn good, got a great car, a load of cash and that's why he's the best. I remember when racing was about spending every day in your buddy's garage, trying to slap together an engine that wouldn't fall to pieces on the start line. But this guy, he's different. He's the new breed."

Matt stood, slapped Hector on the arm. "Good thing I'm old-school then."

A nod, good enough for Hector. "Produce Market, tonight. He'll be there, even if he's not racing. You wanna find him, look for the crowd of models and bodyguards."

"Bodyguards? You kidding me?"

"Guy comes from a rich family, likes to think he's some kind of a rock star, has the crew to go with it. Don't go trying to be his buddy, he's one hell of an asshole." Hector's voice softened a notch, possibly from some streak of concern developed from the other two-dozen guys he'd seen foolishly head down this path. "You want my advice, keep your car and your cash tonight and race someone else. But not that crazy bitch Wi..."

"Thanks, but I'm racing him," said Matt, defiantly. "Tonight."

Hector laughed. "I kinda like you mano, you got guts. No brains, but you got plenty guts. So where you from, Matt Reilly?"

"Around."

"Jesu Christo, after all I told you, that's all you're saying?"

Matt shrugged his shoulders. "That's all there is to say. I'm just a simple kinda guy."

"Well, simple guy, I hope you know what you're doing challenging Westwood an' all. I really hope you ain't got much riding on this."

Much? Matt thought as he walked to his Supra. No, not much.

Everything.