Page 113 of Off the Grid

Pit row is coming up.

Closer.

Closer.

Fuck. I hit traffic. Costas is there squeezing me out, our cars bumping and pushing me off to the outside as we take the corner.

I grip the wheel, feeling for damage from the contact but not finding any.

We come out the other side of the turn, and I go wheel to wheel with him. My temper gets the best of me. My only focus is passing this fucker and getting back the time he’s made me lose on Evans.

I take the outside line, pushing the car to the limits . . . and subsequently miss my exit to pit row.

Subconsciously? I don’t fucking know but Hank’s radio checking in my ear tells me he’s turned it on to say something and then turned it off. No doubt he’s keeping the cursing off the radio since it’s for public consumption.

“Riggs.” It’s all he says. All he has to say.

I just disregarded my race engineer’s directions. That’s not going to go over very well. Not at all.

Later, Riggs.

I pull past Costas and renew my effort to reel Evans back in. To close the gap.

Think about it later.

“You are within DRS range,” Hank says, ever the professional, leaving anything else he has to say off race comms.

“Understood,” I say and push the button to engage.

Go. Go. Go.

I come around Evans. We’re wheel to wheel.

I edge ahead.

He tries to stave off my attack.

I push harder knowing a turn is coming and if I don’t get him now, I never will.

The car brings it. Speed and grit. I edge past Evans as we slow to take turn one. Just as I’m about to accelerate out of it, the car shimmies violently.

Fuck. A tire.

No.

Fuck. No.

I grip the wheel and hold on to try and control the car as it pulls and resists. As I struggle with it.

Sparks fly out behind me.

Smoke.

Screeching.

More smoke.

“You okay, Riggs?” I hear through the headset.