Page 8 of Off the Grid

If I can hit that with Garcia still behind me then I’ll be sitting pretty.

“Push. Push. Push,” Pierre encourages, and I respond accordingly.

He’s watching the car’s gauges. He knows what’s running hot and my split for each sector. He’s my eyes, my ears, my instructor.

The conscience on the track that I don’t want but that I need.

I grip the wheel and fight the turn, my tires hitting the rumble strip as I hit the S curve and come out of it.

“He’s on your right. Closing in.”

Fuck.

C’mon, Riggs. C’mon. C’mon. C’mon.

I focus on the tasks that are second nature. On the skills I’ve honed on the sim and with reaction drills. On the hours I’ve spent studying and feeling every fucking curve of this track.

Another turn comes, a sharp right. My brakes lock up momentarily. The screech. The smoke. The shudder of the wheel.

Shit. I fight through it as I slide off my line but gain control.

“Point eight seconds.”

“Got it.” I recover my control, my pulse racing and adrenaline pumping.

I push the car into the next straight, needing to get more than a second ahead of Garcia to prevent him from using DRS. No way I’m going to let that fucker have a chance to slingshot past and overtake me.

We go into the next turn and when I slow for it, he tries to take the outside. I fight him off and hold on, accelerating rapidly to put distance between us.

“Push, Riggs.”

Fuck off, Pierre, I’m busy.

Thoughts I shouldn’t have but do as I force the car to its brink.

“One point one.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. I’m going to be able to hold on. I’m going to win this fucking race. I’m going to—

The car shimmies and suddenly, the force on my body lets up. The lights on my steering wheel flash. The car slows.

Garcia flies past me.

Then Montpier.

“Pierre,” I shout into my helmet but know there’s nothing he can do.

The engine just blew. It’s fucking toast.

The race is lost.

Fuck.

The word is on constant repeat as the caution flag goes up.

As I climb out of my car.

As the race marshals clear my car.