He slammed his palm down hard on the blueprint, the sharp thud echoing through the room.
"Max Clayton! You're every bit the Clayton family bloodline!" He laughed again. "Back in the day, your grandpa came up to the Northern Territories to race, and he traded a single hand-drawn design for twenty years of track partnership rights with Thunderbolt. Today? You traded one drawing for sponsorship rights across half the Northern Territories!"
He stretched his hand out toward me. "Deal. Thunderbolt will fully fund your team. On top of that, I've got something extra for you." He turned, fumbled with the safe behind him, and pulled out a key. It was an old, rust-flecked thing, worn smooth at the edges from years of sitting untouched. "Your grandpa left this with me years ago. He said one day, so
