Page 139 of Full Throttle

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.