Page 87 of The Fast Track

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Lights out.

I drop the clutch and floor the pedal.

Stephane doesn’t fumble his start, but he does lock up on the first uphill turn, and I’m able to zip ahead. I get good entry speed into Turn 3, using the momentum to flow through the next few turns.

I glance in my side mirror. Stephane is too busy fighting Javi Diaz to make progress on me, exactly as I’d hoped. I position carefully into Turn 11 and zoom flat out down the back straight. Just ahead of me, Sasha runs an inch wide at Turn 12 and Cameron manages to get past him the turn after.

There’s a crash behind me.

I press the radio button. “Who was that?”

“Diaz and Janssen. Janssen’s got a puncture. I’m expecting safety car.”

The words are barely out of Roz’s mouth before the signal on my steering wheel lights up. I slow to approximately half speed. The shiny red Mercedes safety car drives up in front of Cameron, and we wind our way around the track, tires cooling from the lower speeds.

“It’s a difficult extraction site. Looks like safety car may be out for a while,” Roz reports.

I curse. Keeping tires warm isn’t exactly a piece of cake. Every season there’s at least one driver who winds up crashing, which means you’re forever known as the inept loser who lost control at only 80 mph.

I weave my tires left and right, body tense, watching for any hint Lizzie’s back may drop on me.

We go into a tight turn, the place you’re most likely to lose control. Sasha’s slowed in front of me. Too slow, even for safety car conditions.

I slam on my brakes, but I’m too late, and Lizzie’s nose bumps into his rear wing. “He brake checked me!”

“That tosser. Keep your head down. The stewards are already investigating.”

My first instinct is to drive up alongside Sasha and ram into his side pods, but then I’d be the one facing maximum penalty while he gets off scot-free. It’s probably what he’s hoping for.

“Is there damage?”

“You need a new nose. Box box.”

Fury and disappointment mix in my stomach. Being forced to pit means track positions and precious seconds lost. Seconds I need to improve my time, track positions I’ll have to fight to regain.

The crew are prepared when I pull in. They lift up Lizzie’s broken front wing and replace it with a new nose, then give me fresh tires. Though the stop goes smoothly, it still leaves me in the middle of the pack when I rejoin.

“P10,” Roz informs me.

I mutter a silent curse. Slowly, I work my way through the field.

“Nice one,” Roz says after I weave around yet another car to take P4.

To my surprise, Pat, in P3, pulls to the side, leaving the door wide open to let me past. He waves as I go through.

“Was that team orders?”

“Nope.” I hear a smile on the other end. “He says he’s out of the championship fight anyway and wants to maximize his teammates’ chances.”