Chapter 43 Final Push
Final Push
Juliette swerved.
Years of reflex training kicked in. Shrapnel littered the track, and it was only through sheer luck that she managed to avoid most of it. But not all. Her tires looked like they’d been dragged backward through a cactus farm.
By some miracle, Dominic was back on track ahead of her. His car limped forward at a steady clip, but he was pitching heavily to one side. Major damage to his rear wing, Juliette observed, and that was only the beginning of it.
Her stomach plummeted.
Sinclair was a good two seconds ahead of them, which meant that he was well clear of activating DRS and hitching a lift in his slipstream. And the odds of catching him with only twelve laps to go…
Her mouth tightened. Yeah.
Not good.
Juliette chewed her cheek. “Hamish?”
Her race engineer’s voice was tight. “We’re checking his car.”
“Please, for the love of god, say there’s no major damage.”
A long pause.
“There’s some damage,” Hamish offered.
Juliette took a hard right turn. “How bad?”
“We’re checking.” Hamish paused, as if listening to something. “Dominic wants to know if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” Juliette said impatiently. “Ask him if the stewards—”
“We’re already looking into it,” Hamish said.
But they wouldn’t find anything, she thought, frustration rising; Anthony had timed the maneuver so that it could have looked like an overtake. And the stewards were loath to give out time penalties, especially during the last race, when it would make the grand finale less exciting for viewers.
No.
The stewards would call it a “racing incident,” and that would be that.
Game over.
Juliette pushed her car until the tires screamed. “What’s the damage?” No response. Sweat trickled down her spine. “Hamish, can you ask Dominic what the—?”
Hamish spoke through clenched teeth. “I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Hamish. There are eleven laps to go. I need to be in the loop.”
Hamish let out a string of curse words. Or maybe not. Hard to tell with the impassioned Scottish accent. “You know what? Fuck it. I’m connecting your radios.”
Keys clattered. A moment later, Juliette could hear muffled heavy breathing. As if it was coming from inside a racing helmet.
“Marchmont?” Dominic demanded. “Is that you?”
Relief filled her. “Hastings? What’s your car like?”
“Something’s wrong with the engine.” Dominic swore. “It’s barely drivable.”
Juliette’s mind raced. “Pit Hastings on the next lap.” She addressed this to Hamish; it was the only strategy that would work. “I can hold up traffic. If you change the rear wing and have him out in less than twenty seconds, then—”
“Switch us,” Dominic interrupted.
It took three seconds for the words to penetrate. “What?”
“Go ahead of me. You’ve got the better car.”
Juliette swallowed. Technically that was true, but…“My tires have picked up damage. They’re on their last legs.” A product of pitting early, thanks to Robert.
“Sinclair’s tires are shot too,” Dominic pointed out. “You’re on an even playing field.”
She shook her head. “I can’t catch him.”
“You can.” Dominic’s voice blazed with conviction, as if he were a soldier facing down a battalion of forces. As if this were the hill he’d die on. “You’re the best driver on this whole damn racetrack. Drive past me and prove it.”
“You heard him, lass,” Hamish muttered. “Make it quick.”
Juliette inhaled sharply.
Dominic slowed. She caught a glimpse of him as she passed, and her throat felt thick.
“Hastings?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
She could hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll hold up traffic.” Gears shifted. “Make him weep, Marchmont.”
Juliette’s smile was a knife. Oh, she intended to.
She shot down the track. Her tires groaned in protest, sliding beneath her, and her knuckles tightened on the wheel. She was a good three seconds behind Anthony now; she didn’t have a prayer of catching him.
Unless…
An idea formed. She hit the radio button.
“Ranya?” Juliette demanded. “Are you there?”
Ranya cleared her throat. “Yes?”
“Do you remember our conversation about your cane?”
“Her cane?” Hamish sounded baffled. “What are you talking about?”
“Ranya?” Juliette’s heart pounded. “Do you?”
There was a pause. “Yes.”
Understand. Juliette willed it to happen, a silent wish she was sending through the radio channel. Come on, Ranya. Understand what I’m trying to tell you. She couldn’t explicitly spell out what she was trying to say—not with the other teams listening—but if she could just get Ranya to understand…
“We can discuss that later,” Ranya said. “But right now, I need you to box.”
A sob of relief caught in Juliette’s throat. She’d understood. Thank god. Hamish made a spluttering noise.
“What?”
“Box, box,” Ranya repeated. “That’s an order.”
Hamish sounded incredulous. “But there’s only ten laps to go. She’ll lose twenty seconds. The risk—”
“Her tires are shot,” Ranya said firmly. “We’re boxing her now. No arguments. Is that understood, Marchmont?”
“Copy,” Juliette said.
Noise sounded over the radio: the pit crew running onto the track, no doubt, armed with tires and wrenches. Juliette’s heart was a cannon. Please, she thought, her eyes flicking to Anthony’s car. Please go into the pits.
Because Dominic was right: Anthony’s tires were shot. He’d be desperate to change them. And if Anthony thought she was pitting, he’d pit too. That way they’d come onto the track in the same positions.
Anthony approached the pit lane. Juliette’s heart pounded.
Acid clawed up her throat and she felt dizzy, as if the track were splitting in two.
Her tires whined in protest. Whatever happened next would decide the race.
Please, Juliette thought desperately. Please buy it. Please go into the pit lane.
Please do it.
Anthony drew closer to the entrance. He made no sign of turning off.
Please.
Anthony turned, zooming into the pit lane. Juliette hurtled past into first place.
The team erupted into cheers. Everyone in the stands jumped to their feet, waving flags of every size and shape. Juliette let out a breath. A dizzying sensation filled her, like a kite snatched up by a gust of wind.
Holy shit. It had worked.
It had actually bloody worked.
“Oh, you evil bastards.” Hamish sounded delighted. “You threw a dummy.”
She grinned. “Sinclair bought it?”
“There’s lots of swearing,” Hamish reported gleefully. “He’s not happy.”
Juliette exhaled. “Yeah, well, I still need to make it across the finish line.” Her tires resembled Swiss cheese. She wouldn’t last for long.
“Nine laps,” Hamish said. “You can do it.”
He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Then again, he wasn’t driving the car, so perhaps that made it easier.
Juliette glanced in her rearviews. Anthony was only a few seconds behind, and he was on fresh tires. And he had rage. Lots and lots of rage.
No matter what, it was going to be close.
Six laps to go.
Juliette shifted gears. Five laps to go. Four. He was drawing closer. She was losing pace. Another lap passed. Another.
One lap to go.
Anthony pulled up beside her, his car spitting sparks. Juliette gunned it forward. The finish line rushed up—