Ross followed suit, throwing himself into his Black Horse, and seeing Kimberly pull out, followed her lead. Dust sprayed up, as Ross shifted from first into second, the sound of Ross's brakes allowing the turbo to spool a little, with a distinctive whine that followed almost immediately after. Pulling a left, Ross saw the other cars take flight, alongside Kimberly's R34 and Joanne's 911, with half a dozen hypercars and insanely hotly tuned cars now putting foot to floor. The Garmin on Ross's dash lit up, as the GPS recieved instruction, and the route came up. This was an interesting route, to say the least. It was around London Docklands, a real mixture it seemed. Someone had done their research. A close call with London City Airport, through the old Docklands, and through Canary Wharf and the Isle of Dogs, a route that was pretty much a sprint race from the site to a location on a suburban fringe, perhaps in Dagenham somewhere. The old Ford factory, to be specific. Classic, at least someone was thinking this through.
"Let's dance, then." Ross said to himself, as he threw the car into third, the car hurtling forward as the sound of the turbo and anti-lag was almost overbearing, very little sound protection inside. The short shift was wonderful, and throwing gears was great, as Ross saw he was towards the rear of the party. A P1, and an Aventador held up the area in front of Ross, as he took a left onto the dual-carriageway A13, the sight of the occasional car making this interesting. Those Hypercars had the edge here, but their drivers weren't as ready to use that, and were twichy on the damp tarmac, while Ross was absolutely pinned here.

Weaving out of another car, he took the exit and passed the Aventador, to a very confused driver, barely letting go of the throttle as he made a hard shift right, passing on a roundabout under the dual carriageway, the wheels barely getting sideways as Ross headed for the P1's rear like a heat seaking missile, the P1 out accelerating but not outgunning Ross on the exit. Turning hard left, for a sign signposted "London City Airport"- the smallest of London's web of airports, Ross saw the approach arise, as well as the sight of cops get exceptionally shocked as they headed through the tunnel that passed under a DLR route, or the light railway system around the Docklands of London. Turning hard right, he passed the P1 with a well executed four wheel drift, the P1 trying to close him down but to no avail. Now, there were at least half a dozen cars left to close in on, but Ross knew he had this. The sound of distant police said it all. They were going hell for leather, and Ross indeed was not letting go. Going onto the other side of the road to avoid a HGV, he noticed where the GPS was going to take them.
"How you fucking did this, I don't care, I don't know, but this will be fun to explain to the fucking police..." Ross added, as he hit the handbrake, a beautifully executed drift turn throwing Ross around the 120 degree bend, and into sight of the rest of the cars, as he realized what this was. This was a Cargo Entrance to the Airport, not a dart around the drop off areas. They were entering the runways.

Ross could only guess that this was something that would lead to having more than just his licence taken, and more than just a little prison time, as well as his garage of cars probably impounded. More likely, it could be far, far worse. Speeding through the gate, Ross turned hard through a set of containers, as a set of cones marked a route through the boxes and crates on this side of the runway, the GPS having one single marking towards the western edge of the runway, where another exit was marked off. This was insane. How the fuck they were doing this, he didn't know, but he knew it wasn't going to be a case of getting on that runway. If a plane came in, they'd be dead, the backblast and the risk to those people on board too. So he stayed in the taxiing area for cargo flights on the southern side of this runway, where they had entered, and he could tell the rest of the cars were too. Distant police sirens were getting closer, and even a slight buzz of a helicopter could be heard. Now this was a street race done properly. Foot to floor, he turned hard, passing by a pair of luggage carts, aware that the P1 was tailing him. It ran straight past, and thundered off, before braking hard, the driver suddenly spinning out as he came up to the checkpoint, unable to control the incredibly powerful hypercar and take it through the exit gate. Ross chuckled, speeding past, catching air on an exit ramp off the concrete runway, a couple of sparks flying from his low-down rear splitter. It hurt, but Ross didn't give a shit now. They were racing, and things happened that could be fixed.

Out of the airport, dozens of police cars could be seen, as Ross weaved past a couple of forklifts and HGVs by a few warehouses on this side of the airport's cargo and logistical nerve centre, exiting through the final gate as he finally caught sight of a C7 ahead. The V8 roared in that Chevy, but Ross knew the driver was holding it now on pure speed and tyre smoke alone. Not great, because Ross knew he would pass him, and pass him good. Shifting down, through a mini-roundabout Ross didn't even need to let go of the throttle for very long to be right back on it, a tiny tail kick from the Subaru allowing him to catch his tail very easily, the sight of a massive backfire and flame from the Subaru's exaust as he exited the corner saying it all. This car may have not had the power of some of it's peers, but in it's delivery, it was vicious. It felt like a Go Cart, with the tyres almost glued and pinned when he took it through corners, drifts either incredibly scary and near impossible to recover or simply a joy to execute depending on the angle of attack. In the case of the latter, it was whenever Ross had too much speed through a corner, and rather than under-steering, this car was primed to simply stick the rear down and give a little leniency on the tighter stuff. 

Watching ahead, Ross saw the checkpoints on the GPS wind through the new housing that had been built here, taking a left through a couple of smaller roads, winding and weaving through parked cars and cars, cutting red lights as Ross shifted down to take a 90 degree bend. The C7 took it wide, and Ross capitalized, taking him on the outside, the C7 futile in trying to cut him off, as Ross saw Kimberly and Joanne ahead try to take on the pack leaders. This was turning out to be a race and a half, and the police were having trouble catching them. It seemed the route was clever- it kept the cops on their toes, and really intercepting where they would go next was proving exceptionally difficult- there were so many roads and numbers that the police were having a very diffiult time on their hands- interceptor vehicles wouldn't even catch them, such as the Met's own Subaru WRX STIs and EVO IXes. Ross had seen the car hit 170 on the taxiway, and through these roads, was averaging almost 90, often exceeding that on roads a few car widths wide, parked cars and traffic about. This was called lunacy at it's finest, but this was the street racing scene at it's perfection.