Drive To Survive (Full Velocity #4)
Nico
NICO
Deafening roars from the crowd penetrated the thick padding of my helmet, and colorful flags caught my eye, waved by racing fanatics sensing a dramatic end to the race. I smiled to myself. While Spa was considered one of the most challenging race tracks in the F1 calendar, I’d always loved it. Sure the weather in this part of Belgium was unpredictable at the best of times, but when the rain came down and the clouds loomed overhead, racing magic happened.
As the thought entered my head, the heavens opened and in seconds, the track was soaked. Somehow, I made it back to the pits, but several of my competitors slid off the race track. After a change of tires to full wets, I was back on the track, and back in the game.
Four lengths ahead of me, Jared Kane, one of my best friends—and bitter rivals—negotiated Eau Rouge and Raidillon, two of the most difficult corners on the track, like the fucking pro he was. He sped down the Kemmel straight with me less than half a second behind. I followed, less than half a second behind.
“You’re mine, Kane,” I shouted into my helmet. A bark of laughter sounded in my ear from my racing engineer, Corey. “Move over, sweet cheeks. I’ll show ya how it’s done.”
I came out of Turn Fifteen on a perfect racing line, and getting a great tow, I slingshotted my car alongside Jared’s. As I pulled in front of him, he flipped me off. I chuckled. Every racer was a competitive bastard, and Jared Kane was no different. Inside the cockpit, he’d be pulsating with rage at himself for letting me overtake him. Not that he could have done much about it. My car was better suited to this track.
Driving through Blanchimont, I spotted Tate Flynn—the current Formula One Championship leader and another great friend of mine—up ahead. If he won here, he’d stretch out his lead even further – and I couldn’t allow that to happen.
“Easy,” Corey’s calm voice came over the intercom. “You’ve got three laps to take him. No risks, .”
The road vibrated through my seat, and the steering wheel shook as we hurtled toward the start-finish line. Cars were still exiting the pit lane on their wet tires, but I sped past them easily enough. The rain had eased a little, but the track was nowhere near dry enough for another change of tires. Thank Christ. So close to the end, the last thing I needed was another visit to the pits.
At Eau Rouge, I braked slightly later than Tate. The move brought me right on his tail. I weaved left and right, not because I could take him here but because I wanted to hammer home how close I was. I didn’t expect him to make a mistake—Tate didn’t make mistakes—but if I applied enough pressure, I might get an in. I had to drive the perfect lap and, like Corey said, bide my time.
I followed behind Tate, my teeth grinding as I waited for my chance, but due to the ack of traction caused by the airflow that came off his car, I couldn’t get any closer. I only had two laps left to reel this fucker in. I couldn’t almost taste victory and lose it now, although losing to Tate or Jared wouldn’t hurt as bad as losing to some of the other guys. The press called us The Three Amigos on account of our fierce rivalry, yet still we managed to maintain a close friendship, an unusual occurrence in motorsport, where the singularity of man and machine against the pack usually dictated driver behavior.
Dog eat dog.
Survival of the fittest.
Winner takes all.
Sure, we celebrated our victories, but we didn’t rub it in each other’s faces. If Tate emerged as the winner today, he’d clap me on the back and tell me he couldn’t have done it without me and Jared pushing him all the way.
As I approached Eau Rouge for the second to last time, the rear wheels drifted at the exit to the corner. I corrected, but as I did, I felt something snap beneath me.
The car spun.
Lurched.
Headed for the retaining wall.
G-forces charged through my body as the car screeched to an immediate stop.
Pain shot up my legs, through my spine, down my arms. My entire skeleton felt as if it were on fire.
I smelled smoke.
Caught sight of the marshals dashing toward me, their high-vis jackets billowing in the wind.
My vision blurred, and I blacked out.
Hushed voices filtered through the fog in my brain, the irritating sound dragging me back to consciousness. My eyelids flickered. Why won’t they open? I strained—and failed. I tried again, and failed again.
Fuck! Ever the stubborn bastard, I forced it.
Light hit my retinas, and this time my lids stayed open. I blinked up at a harsh blue fluorescent tube and a pristine white ceiling.
Groggy. So damn groggy. What the hell happened?
I tried to turn my head. A blinding pain shot through my temple.
Bad idea, . Keep still.
“How’s he doing, Doc?”
Was that Jared?
“It’s too early to say.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit.”
Yeah, definitely Jared. Blunt and direct.
I heard a sigh, and then the doctor said, “The operation went as well as could be expected, but we won’t know the true outcome and if it was successful until he’s fully awake and we can run some tests.”
Operation? What fucking operation? What the fuck is going on?
“But you’re pleased, yeah?”
That’s Tate. Jared and Tate are both here.
Where’s here?
No way was I having a second go at any head movement, not even to try to clear the confusion. The first attempt damn near split my head in two.
“Let’s wait and see, shall we, Mr. Flynn?”
“How soon until he can race again?” Jared asked.
Racing. Yes! I was on the track. I remembered now. Spa. Behind Tate, going for the win. A snap. Something breaking. The wall… pain. So much pain.
Shit.
I crashed the fucking car.
“Mr. Kane, I don’t think you understand.”
My ears perked up. Why the incredulous tone? Kind of hushed, but firm and, yeah, disbelieving. The hairs on the back of my neck stood upright, my nerve endings firing.
Fuck, this is gonna be bad .
“If we succeed in getting enough blood flow to Mr. Palmer’s lower limbs, then we might avoid amputation, which in itself will be an amazing achievement, right up there with the miracle of him ever walking again. But racing? I’m sorry. There’s no way he’ll ever race again.”
No.
No. No, no, no.
It can’t be.
Racing is my life.
My heart thrashed against my rib cage.
Several alarms jangled.
“What the fuck’s happening?” Tate barked.
A woman in lilac scrubs lifted my lids and shined a light in my eye. I squeezed them shut.
“No,” I mumbled, sounding nothing like me. I tried again. “No,” I croaked. Christ, the rasp was horrendous.
“.” Jared’s face appeared in front of me, his dark hair cropped shorter than usual, his brown eyes filled with concern. “Bud, can you hear me?”
“Mr. Kane, please step back. We need to sedate him.”
I shook my head. Winced. Fisted the covers. “No sedation.”
I took a deep breath, slowing my heart rate, like I had a hundred times on the track, my body disciplined to comply with my every demand.
I was in control. Me. Not this hospital. Not my body.
Me.
I controlled everything.
I saw the needle, the point butted up against the cannula in my arm.
“No,” I proclaimed as darkness descended.
The sound of a bird making a racket right outside my window dragged me back to consciousness. I blinked, winced, blinked again.
Turning my head, I found Tate slumped in a chair, Jared in the one next to him. Their eyes were closed, chests steadily rising and falling.
“Hey.”
This time my voice came out stronger, more like me. Tate’s eyes sprang open. He punched Jared’s arm, and the pair of them got to their feet and drew closer.
“How you feeling?” Jared asked, looming over me, dark bruises shadowing his eyes.
“Is it true?” I bit out.
“Is what true?” Tate asked.
“Don’t screw with me, Flynn. Is. It. Fucking. True?”
“Calm the fuck down.” Jared touched my arm, and I felt it.
Well, at least I wasn’t paralyzed from the neck down.
I twisted my head, wincing at the sharp pain cutting through my temple. I locked my gaze on Jared. “Give it to me straight. No bullshit. Am I done?”
A rivulet of sweat trickled down my neck as I waited for his answer. He traded a glance with Tate, then refocused on me, his dark brown eyes unblinking.
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re done.”