Page 140 of Full Throttle

It took three seconds for the words to penetrate. “What?”

“Go ahead of me. You’ve got the better car.”

Juliette swallowed. Technically that was true, but…“My tires have picked up damage. They’re on their last legs.” A product of pitting early, thanks to Robert.

“Sinclair’s tires are shot too,” Dominic pointed out. “You’re on an even playing field.”

She shook her head. “I can’t catch him.”

“You can.” Dominic’s voice blazed with conviction, as if he were a soldier facing down a battalion of forces. As if this were the hill he’d die on. “You’re the best driver on this whole damn racetrack. Drive past me and prove it.”

“You heard him, lass,” Hamish muttered. “Make it quick.”

Juliette inhaled sharply.

Dominic slowed. She caught a glimpse of him as she passed, and her throat felt thick.

“Hastings?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

She could hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll hold up traffic.” Gears shifted. “Make him weep, Marchmont.”

Juliette’s smile was a knife. Oh, she intended to.

She shot down the track. Her tires groaned in protest, sliding beneath her, and her knuckles tightened on the wheel. She was a good three seconds behind Anthony now; she didn’t have a prayer of catching him.

Unless…

An idea formed. She hit the radio button.

“Ranya?” Juliette demanded. “Are you there?”

Ranya cleared her throat. “Yes?”

“Do you remember our conversation about your cane?”

“Her cane?” Hamish sounded baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“Ranya?” Juliette’s heart pounded. “Do you?”

There was a pause. “Yes.”

Understand. Juliette willed it to happen, a silent wish she was sending through the radio channel. Come on, Ranya. Understand what I’m trying to tell you. She couldn’t explicitly spell out what she was trying to say—not with the other teams listening—but if she could just get Ranya to understand…

“We can discuss that later,” Ranya said. “But right now, I need you to box.”

A sob of relief caught in Juliette’s throat. She’d understood. Thank god. Hamish made a spluttering noise.

“What?”

“Box, box,” Ranya repeated. “That’s an order.”

Hamish sounded incredulous. “But there’s only ten laps to go. She’ll lose twenty seconds. The risk—”

“Her tires are shot,” Ranya said firmly. “We’re boxing her now. No arguments. Is that understood, Marchmont?”