Chapter 45
JACK
SÃO PAULO
‘Don’t panic, Jack, he’s not been given permission to race you,’ my race engineer says, clearly watching the gap between Micah and I narrow on his screen. ‘If he overtakes, he’ll have to give the place back.’
After the piss-take that was Austin, and the monumental bollocking Micah received, I really thought the rest of the season would pass without an internal hitch. Mexico reinforced this, where he towed along in fourth for most of the race, defending like a good little teammate. Granted, RaceX’s Matteo D’Ambrosio and Ackland’s Kurtis Hatten-Meyer separated us.
Now there’s no such buffer. We’re running one-two, and it’s obvious Micah hasn’t taken an iota of Lorenzo’s warning on board. I observe the breath going in and out of my lungs. It’s going to be fine. We’ve got seventeen laps to go. He can’t pull his wily last lap bullshit this time. Not yet, at least.
Tell that to my blood pressure, though.
‘How far’s Webber behind him?’ I ask.
‘Two point three.’
Close. Too close. Micah should be focusing on maintaining and defending against Martinelli, not creeping up on me!
The Interlagos circuit’s sound for overtaking. It has beautiful corners, long straights with DRS zones and elevation changes that can catch even experienced drivers out. I’m coming up to the most popular place to overtake – the straight leading to Turn 1. It’s an absolute chef’s kiss for getting the deed done. If that doesn’t work, Turns 1 and 2 form a double apex creating a tight braking zone that’s perfect for dive-bombing. Fucking wonderful.
I need to stop winding myself up. He’s not going to try. He’ll lose a stupid amount of grip doing the manoeuvre and returning the place. Even The Green Finn would agree it’s a dumb idea.
But I wouldn’t put it past Micah to do it simply to prove he can.
Just had an update: he’s within a second now. If this is a pride thing, I refuse to be a sitting duck this time. I’m still spitting feathers about Austin; there’s no way I can play by the book and sit idly by while he trumps me again. My tyres are decent. I can battle him without creating too much friction, and it won’t be long before team orders force him back anyway. I won’t look like a mug twice. As I enter the straight, my hands tighten on the wheel.
He picks up the slipstream and dummies right. You’re not racing a rookie, boyo; I battled Luc all the way through the feeder series.I pretend to fall for it and, pulse thundering in my ears, veer left to cut off his next move. We’re almost at the curve of Turn 1 and?—
I’m thrown forward.
Then I’m spinning.
My car clatters into the wall so fast my brain rattles in my skull.
What the?—
What the fuck happened?
There was no time to think or panic or steer into it. I grip both sides of my helmet, willing my ears to stop ringing.
Do I smell smoke? I don’t think so.
Is anything broken? I pedal my feet and roll my shoulders, move my head from side to side. Bruised, but fine.
‘Jack? Jack, are you ok?’ asks my race engineer. He sounds like he’s barely managing to stay cool. I can’t tell if that means he’s worried or furious.
‘I’m fine,’ I croak, and let out a wheezy cough that makes my whole body hurt. I hope they play my response on the main commentary so Minnie can hear. Can’t have her stressing. ‘What happened?’
‘Micah rear-ended you.’
What the hell? The bastard.
It must have been an accident. His need to win is insatiable; he’d never jeopardise an opportunity. His car will probably be more damaged than mine. I poke my head above the halo and sure enough, there’s the other Pagari, sitting in what I assume was my rear wing.
But what if it was on purpose? That’d make him an absolute sociopath.
The top of his helmet’s moving. He’s unbuckling himself. After a stunt like that, I’m disappointed he doesn’t have a couple of broken bones. Nothing major, a busted arm and some whiplash. Jury’s still out on the whiplash, I guess. Here’s hoping.
