Chapter Three – Melbourne Post-Race
Elena Archer – Middle Park Beach, Melbourne
The city was still awake behind me, a soft hum of traffic and the city’s lights bleeding into the sky. But down here by the water, Melbourne was all shadow and salt. Waves lapped lazily at the shore, black against the strip of wet sand, and the night air tasted faintly of diesel from the harbour.
He was already there when I arrived. Standing near the promenade railing, hood pulled low, hands jammed in his pockets. A man who wanted to be invisible.
“Archer?” His voice was rough, wary.
I nodded, stopping just short of him. “You’re the one who messaged me?”
“Keep your voice down.” He scanned the walkway like someone might’ve followed me, though the only sound was the wind. “You listened.”
“To the engine? Yeah. I’ve been listening for two days straight. Quali versus race. It’s… different. But I can’t tell how.”
“It’s not about the sound.” He reached into his pocket, hesitated, then pulled out a small USB stick. The chrome casing gleamed under the street light. “It’s about what makes the sound change.”
I frowned. “The power unit?”
He shook his head. “The mapping. They’ve buried a variable mode in the software—one that changes under load but never trips the FIA’s system checks. On paper, the car’s legal. In reality?” He let out a sharp breath. “Let’s just say it’s not playing fair.”
I felt my pulse quicken. “You’re certain?”
“I’ve seen the data. I shouldn’t even know it exists, let alone be talking to you about it.” He pushed the USB into my hand. “You’ll need someone who understands ECU code to read it. Just… be careful who you ask.”
The metal was cold against my palm. “Why tell me?”
He looked out over the water, his voice almost lost to the wind. “Because someone needs to. And because I remember what happened to your father.”
That stopped me cold.
He didn’t meet my eyes. “He was right, by the way. About the telemetry scandal back then. We all know it now. Obsidian just made sure the world forgot before it hit print.”
A gull shrieked overhead, startled by the wind, and he flinched. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Wait—what’s your name?”
But he was already walking away, footsteps crunching on the tin layer of wet sand clinging to the paving, swallowed by the darkness toward the car park.
I looked down at the USB, the street light glinting off its surface like a sliver of truth—or a blade.
Dad’s voice came back to me, low and steady, from a memory I’d spent years trying to bury.
Truth isn’t a headline. It’s a fight. And it never ends clean.
I closed my hand around the drive, the sea breeze whipping hair across my face.
Melbourne was still vibrating from the race—horns in the streets, laughter echoing off the bay, the city drunk on adrenaline and champagne.
The bar down the street from my hotel, though, was its own little world: dim light, jazz murmuring low, the scent of whisky and sea air bleeding in through the open doors.
I slipped onto a stool at the far end of the sleek bar, the glass surface cool against my bare arms. I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. My hair was still wind-tangled from the beach, salt clinging to the ends.
The bartender approached and I met his eye briefly, just long enough to place my order.
“Whisky, neat.” No ice. No patience.
I should have gone back to my room, uploaded my notes, hidden the USB somewhere safer than my bag. But my hands were still shaking—not with fear, exactly. With the knowledge that I was now holding something that could tear the crown off Obsidian’s empire.
The bartender slid my drink across the counter. I took a sip, the burn cutting through the haze. For a few moments, I let myself breathe.
Then the air shifted.
I saw him in the mirror first, framed by the golden glow of the shelves behind the bar.
Aleksandr Volkov. No race suit, no cameras, no handlers—just black jeans, a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, Laurent échelon watch glinting in the soft lights of the bar.
Every inch still controlled. Every movement still deliberate.
Of all the bars in Melbourne.
My first instinct was to leave. The second was to stay.
I watched his reflection as he took the stool two seats away, nodding to the bartender. “Vodka. Straight.” His voice was quieter than in the press pen—lower, rougher, stripped of its PR polish.
He didn’t look my way at first, though I could see the flicker of awareness in his posture, that subtle tightening when someone recognises a presence before they turn.
As his glass was placed on the bar in front of him, his eyes met mine in the mirror.
He tilted his glass briefly, as if toasting, then knocked the liquor back in one gulp.
He turned to leave but stalled, half on his stool, one foot on the floor.
He looked at me directly and heaved a sigh, shaking his head.
“What?” I asked, voice sharper than I intended. My nerves were on edge. Was it a coincidence that he’d walked into the exact same bar as me right after my clandestine meeting with someone with knowledge of his team cheating?
“You’re everywhere I turn, Ms Archer. I can’t seem to get away from you. Why is that?”
“It’s a small community.”
“No it isn’t.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Over in the far corner of the bar, a group of people sporting Nova colours of bright pink and cobalt blue roared with laughter and both of us glanced in their direction.
Volkov moved closer to me, close enough for his cologne to wash over me. He planted a hand on the bar right in front of me and dipped his head level with my ear.
“If you keep digging, you may find yourself digging your own grave.” His voice was barely above a whisper, his Estonian accent thicker than normal and laced with venom.
“Is that a threat, Champion?” I asked, incredulous and wishing to God I’d hit record on my phone.
“No,” he said, blanching as if I’d doused him with ice water. “A warning. Go home. Find another story.”
“Give me something on the record.”
“You’ve had enough of that from me. You’re chasing a ghost. Vapour. Nothing more. Let it go.”
He spun away and stalked out through the terrace doors. I watched him go, pulse still hammering in my throat. For a man so sure of himself, he looked almost… afraid. And that told me everything I needed to know.
“Damn.” I pulled out my phone and typed out a message to my editor. I checked the time and did the maths quickly in my head. Not yet midnight here, lunch time there. With a nod, I hit send.
Got the dirt. It’s top tier. I’ll have more soon. But O are running scared. Any idea who I speak to about ECU code?
I finished my drink and left the bar, stepping out into the cool night.
I looked left and right and caught sight of Volkov’s tall frame marching down the brightly lit street, his hands deep in his pockets.
I pressed my tongue to the inside of my top teeth, itching to run after him in search of a quote, but I got the feeling I wouldn’t get anything out of him now.
My phone buzzed in my hand and I raised it to see a reply from Graham.
I have an IT guy here. But if you want someone out there, I can email you a few names. When are you heading home?
I glanced after Volkov again but he’d vanished. I’d been planning to fly home with a story to write, but I didn’t have enough yet. I wanted to be in Singapore in two weeks and I couldn’t see my claim for two more long haul flights being paid out.
I’ll stay out here for the next race. I can work remotely. Send me those contacts. Thanks.
I watched the three dots bouncing at the bottom of the screen and waited. The sea air whipped my loose hair around my face and a shiver ran up my spine.
Roger. Elena, be careful. Don’t let this get personal.
I wrinkled my nose at the suggestion. But of course it was personal, because my Dad had worked for Obsidian and had lost his job when he tried to blow the whistle on them cheating twenty years ago.
This was unfinished business. I had to prove they were still up to their old tricks. Everything was on the line.