Page 96 of Full Throttle

“But there’s a safety car,” Juliette argued. “It won’t cost us any time.”

“Robert says no.”

Juliette let out a string of colorful curse words. The car was skidding, the tires bubbling like soup over high heat. There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d make it to the finish line on these. She’d be lucky to make it another lap.

“My tires are shot. If we pit now, we can switch to the softs with no jeopardy.” And then, just to play nice: “I appreciate that Plan C might have made more sense at the beginning, but we should adapt our strategy to fit the current track conditions.”

Her radio crackled. An eerie whistling filtered over the radio, and Juliette’s fingers tightened on the wheel.

“Juliette?”

The male voice was oily, the sort of thing that reminded her of sardines packed into a can. Even without the German accent, she would have known who it was. The damn whistling gave it away.

“Hi, Robert.”

The chief race strategist sounded bored. “We’re not changing our strategy.”

“I can’t perform with these tires.”

“My job is to advise. Your job is to drive. If you feel you can’t perform with the tools that we’ve given you, then I’m afraid that’s your issue.”

Juliette’s chest clenched. So damn stubborn. That’s what people always said. And they were right. She was like a dog with a chew toy in its teeth: If you tried to rip it away, she’d only cling on harder. “If you’d just listen to what I—”

“That’s my final decision,” Robert said.

A green flag waved. Cars shot forward, and the crowd cheered. Juliette’s heart sank. She stamped on the gas, wincing as her car skidded through a corner. Too late. The words were a drumbeat in her ears. Our only chance, and we’ve missed it.

She clung to the wheel. Ahead, Dominic cut through the air, his car twisting with restrained elegance. If Anthony drove like a battering ram, Dominic drove like a shark darting through water. Still. How the hell was he doing that on old tires? Surely even a driver of his abilities couldn’t…

A terrible realization struck her.

“Did Hastings pit?” Juliette demanded. “Under the safety car?”

Hamish paused. “Juliette…”

“Did he?”

A longer pause. “Aye.”

Juliette let out a shaky breath. Her car bucked, the tires dissolving like sugar in water. Right. So Robert had deliberately pitted Dominic and hung her out to dry. He was trying to screw her over. But why? Because she was a woman? Because his son hated her? So Dominic could take the position at the end of the season?

Juliette exhaled. Well.

Best of luck to him.

She shifted gears. Dominic and Sinclair were neck and neck. It would be difficult to win, but not impossible. She shot down the straight, calculating angles and timings. Sinclair relied heavily on DRS to overtake; he wasn’t good at defending on corners. If she could push Dominic left…If she could get past them both…

Juliette sped up.

One lap to go.

“Steady,” Hamish cautioned.

Juliette gritted her teeth. Her car whined in protest, the tires unraveling like spools of yarn. She might as well have been driving on ice.

Hamish’s voice was tight. “Steady.”

Juliette sent out a silent prayer. Then she rode the corner hard, pushing Dominic wide. He hadn’t been expecting it—she never overtook on the inside—and he was late under braking. Too late. She shot past, her pulse roaring in her ears as she fetched up beside Sinclair.