"Whip! I gotta have that torque wrench or I ain't never gonna get this done."

"Take a look in the far chest, Sunshine. The second drawer. I got it out of there earlier."

"Well, it ain't in there now. It ain't in any of 'em. Drawers or chests. I done looked."

Hunkered down outside the Corley Motors rig, the tractor-trailer used to haul "Bad Dog" Butch Corley's dragster to National Hot Rod Association events, Trey "Whip" Davis straightened from where he'd been securing an extension cord against the movable race pit flooring, and mentally retraced the day's steps.

He'd had the torque wrench with him when he'd grabbed for his BlackBerry to call Butch—the driver had been enjoying a late breakfast with his wife and son—only to realize he'd left the PDA on a shelf in the hauler's workshop. He'd obviously set down the tool when he'd picked up the phone, but—crap on a cracker.

What was wrong with his head?

This wasn't like him, being off kilter, disorganized, careless. He was making stupid mistakes. It had to stop. And it had to stop now. He headed for the racing trailer's open door. "Take a break, guy. Grab a corndog. Get a cup of coffee. I'll rustle it up."

Sunshine got to his feet, twisted and stretched his stocky five-foot-seven frame, and gave Trey his trademark sunny smile—one that reddened his already ruddy complexion, which in turn made his blond eyebrows appear to have been bleached within an inch of their life. "Can't turn down that million-dollar offer. See ya in a bit, Boss."

Trey watched his assistant crew chief make his way toward the concession stands, zigzagging through the haulers, pop-ups and motor homes turning the Dahlia Speedway pits into a virtual campgr