Chapter Thirty Seven –Bahrain Grand Prix, Race Day
Aleksandr Volkov
The sun dropped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the start grid. I was already strapped in, helmet on, hands flexing around the wheel as the lights blinked overhead.
This was it.
No tricks. No maps. Just me, the car, and the truth.
One light.
I focused on the revs.
Two.
I tuned out the crowd.
Three.
Everything else fell away.
Four.
No ghosts, no guilt.
Five.
Just drive.
Lights out.
I launched clean off the line — perfect getaway — but so did Luca Moretti beside me. His Hawthorn surged up the inside into Turn One. I gave him space. No point in tangling. He edged ahead, but I stayed tight on his gearbox, tyres sliding as we clawed through the corner.
“Good start,” Patel said calmly in my ear. “Keep it tight.”
The next fifteen laps were a blur of precision. Moretti held firm in front, but I was faster. Just waiting for my moment.
“Box this lap,” Patel said. “Plan A.”
“Copy.”
I peeled off into the pit entry, eyes flicking to the delta on my dash — everything looked good. But as I sped towards our garage—
Callum’s car was in the box.
My pulse slammed.
The crew weren’t ready.
“Shit!” I braked hard, tyres screaming as they scrambled to switch setups.
We weren’t supposed to double stack.
I sat, stuck, while Callum’s tyres were changed — then mine. A beat too long. A breath too slow. The stop was clean, but five and a half seconds bled away.
I shot back onto track with teeth clenched and tyres cold.
“Sorry, Aleks,” Patel said, calm but tight. “I didn’t get confirmation Drake was boxing. That’s on me.”
“Understood,” I ground out. “Where are we?”
“P3 net. Moretti ahead by 3.2. Takeda between on worn tyres. You’re still in it.”
“Then let’s go.”
I caught Takeda in three laps — his grip fading, his lines wide. I pounced down the inside at Turn Nine, tyres skimming the edge of the kerb.
Moretti was tougher. Calculated. Relentless.
I was stuck behind him but gaining steadily.
Our second pit stop was smooth, swift, with no sacrifice of track position.
Lap forty-seven. I reeled Moretti in under DRS. Patel guided me like a sniper. “He’s covering Turn One. Try Turn Four. Set him up now.”
I burned some battery, and faked wide through Turn Two — Moretti defended late. Perfect.
I cut across behind him, took the better exit, hit the slight curve of Turn Three almost wheel to wheel with him and launched down the straight right on his tail.
Turn Four came fast. I braked later. Harder. We were side-by-side through the corner — two inches between carbon fibre.
But I was ahead.
The cheers from the crowd bled through the helmet, but I barely heard them. All I heard was my pulse and the scream of the engine. I pulled clear by half a second. Then a full second. Then two.
“Great move,” Patel said. “You’re clear.”
Ten laps to go.
Every turn, every shift, every breath — I drove like the man I used to be. Like the man I wanted to be. No shadows, no suspicion. Just skill.
I crossed the finish line two seconds ahead of Moretti.
P1.
I let out a shaky laugh inside my helmet.
“Fucking hell,” I muttered. “That one’s mine.”
“Copy that,” Patel said. “All yours, boss. You earned every inch of it.”
The team erupted in my ear. Cheering, clapping, whoops I barely recognised. Heidi’s voice broke through — “Well done, Aleks. Bloody well done.”
I pulled into the number one spot, killed the engine, and let the silence rush in.
Outside the cockpit, the world roared. Inside me, it was still.
I climbed out and raised a hand — not a fist, not a roar — just a salute. To the team. To Patel. To myself.
The cameras surged forward. Reporters shouted my name.
But I was already looking past them.
Because Elena was there, on the other side of the barrier. Waiting. Smiling.
I tugged my helmet off, and my balaclava, and placed them on the stand in front of my car. With laser focus, I headed for her, a tear niggling at the corner of my eye. The team members between us parted and Elena squeezed through the gap. I reached over the barrier and pulled her into my arms.
The roar of the crowd was deafening. My team mates cheered and thumped my back. But I didn’t care about what they wanted, only what I needed. I’d won, fair and square. No doubt. Just the sweet bliss of relief and there was only one person I wanted to share that moment with.
I captured her mouth with mine, only vaguely aware of all of the cameras on us.
The whole world knew the truth now but I didn’t care about the world.
This was our moment, mine and Elena’s. It didn’t matter what happened for the rest of the season.
I’d done what I needed to do on the track.
And now I had what I needed off the track too.
The Last Question of the Interview
“So, Aleksandr Volkov, World Champion, has anything good come out of this experience?” Elena Archer’s voice was warm, inviting the Champion to open up one last time for the world.
Aleks looked past the camera, gaze softening, a small smile gracing his hard face.
“I fell in love with you.”