Page 136 of Off the Grid

He winks and then I laugh as he dives between my legs.

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CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Riggs

Andrew’s losing ground.

He’s sitting P4 and he’s losing pace. Is it his tires? His engine? What the fuck is it?

I grip the wheel and sit just behind his right rear, ready to fend off attackers. The bane of my existence.

My car is dialed. It’s quick and responsive and, “C’mon,” I shout.

“I understand your frustration, but we’re holding,” Hank says.

“Why?” I snap back. The podium is within reach. I know I’m faster than the driver at P3. My sector times prove it. “Are we free to fight?” I ask, hoping they’ll let me race my own teammate and try for the podium. “Let me fight.”

Silence eats the connection.

It’s my answer.

It’s my rejection.

“Hold, Riggs.” But by the time Hank finishes those words, I’m already overtaking Andrew and flying past him with the help of the slipstream.

There is noise in my comms but I don’t pay attention. I know Hank won’t say much as every fan and every network can hear him.

So I tune him out.

I focus on the car in front of me. On reeling him in. On having the drive of my fucking life here at Monza.

I’m sure he’s cussing me out. That Omar is standing with his hands gripping his headset so hard his knuckles are white.

But Andrew’s car is competing while mine is dialed in. It’s either me protecting a slowing teammate and finishing farther down the grid or me trusting my skills, my car, and my team, and giving them a podium.

The radio is silent for a stretch, but it doesn’t last long when Hank realizes that I’m on pace to catch and overtake Halloran.

“Five tenths of a second back,” he finally says, his voice clipped.

“Understood.”

We pull in to a sharp corner and Halloran gives a sharp fake to the right before closing in tight to the chicane.

But I know this move of his.

I’ve gone against it when we karted against each other. He got me with it once. He won’t get me with it again. Not when it matters even more.

He fakes right and I drive straight for his fake so that by the time he’s correcting himself, I’m already half a car length into him.

And then I’m past.

I don’t touch him.

We don’t connect.

But he overcorrects and, in a quick glance in my mirror, I see him spin out into the gravel.