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mind?”
    He grinned. “Slowest lap buys the kettle corn. Fastest picks the stands for midnight viewing.”
    Driving together for the first time this week, Ian and I had discovered two points of remarkable similarity: nearly identical lap times in all driving conditions and massive sweet tooths. We’d stolen a golf cart Thursday afternoon to scout out good race-viewing spots around the track and had agreed to watch a bit of the night action together.
    â€œHave your money ready, big shot,” I responded.
    â€œThat’s Rookie Big Shot of the Year to you.” He stuck his nose in the air and flicked imaginary dust from his shoulders.
    I couldn’t help a chuckle. Ian was the current hot, young thing in the American open-wheel world, taking rookie of the year honors the previous year and even leading the Indy 500 on his first attempt.
    Christine—or Chris—Syfert, one of the amateurs driving the 30 car and one of his coaching students, spoke up from his other side. “I wouldn’t bet against the woman, Ian. You never know how far we’ll go to win a challenge.”
    â€œYou don’t think I’ve taught you all my tricks, do you?” Ian winked at her.
    I turned to the monitors again, picking out the three Sandham Swift Corvettes. The number 28 was a new Corvette Stingray, the C7.R, competing in the GT Le Mans class, for sportscars that adhered to specifications for the 24 Hours of Le Mans. GTLMs were mostly piloted by professional drivers.
    In a dramatic upset, Mike had qualified our number 28 second in GTLM behind the pole sitter, a BMW Z4. The shock was our scrappy privateer team, the only privateer running a brand-new Stingray—due to the benevolence of General Motors—out-qualifying the better-equipped and better-funded factory team. Come race time, they wouldn’t be behind us for long, but we’d savored the qualifying result.
    Sandham Swift’s 29 and 30 cars were previous-generation Corvettes, the C6.R, competing in the GT Daytona class. GTDs were run to similar car specifications, for a mix of amateur and pro drivers. Lars Pierson, a regular co-driver of my sister car, the number 29, had qualified that car eighth. Thomas Kendall, the rock-star-turned-racecar-driver and owner of the number 30, had qualified his car fifteenth.
    On screen, I noticed the 30 sandwiched by matching silver and purple cars from Arena Motorsports, the mega-team up the way.
    I elbowed Ian. “Weren’t you having issues with their cars?”
    â€œThe 45 and 54 stuck like magnets to ours all week—always around in practice, quali, even tech inspection.”
    â€œAnd now they’re ahead and behind you. Coincidence?”
    He shrugged. “Seemed like they were there too regularly for that. Then again, there are so many of those team cars, one of them has to be nearby, right? Thomas has been warned to be extra careful of any car with those colors on it.”
    â€œI hope he can keep his cool.”
    â€œCopy that, Reilly. But I figure, if he can face down fifty thousand screaming fans in a concert, he can stay calm on track, too.” Ian scrunched up his face and played an air guitar riff.
    I smiled. “You look ridiculous.”
    â€œThomas is giving me lessons, babe. I’m going to be a rock star if this driving gig doesn’t pan out.”
    In his other life, Thomas Kendall was “Tommy Fantastic,” the lead guitarist for a multi-platinum rock band. But what Thomas really wanted to do was race, and he did so every time he wasn’t on tour. Between Thomas and Miles, Sandham Swift cornered the market on glamour at Daytona.
    â€œDon’t quit your day job.” I patted Ian on the shoulder.
    He shook his head. “Not today, at any rate. Here we go.”
    Everyone in the pits held their breath. The field of cars formed into pairs around the last turn and headed for the green flag.

Chapter Four
    2:10 P.M. | 24:00 HOURS