I closed my hand around the drive, the sea breeze whipping hair across my face.
Melbourne was still vibrating from the race—horns in the streets, laughter echoing off the bay, the city drunk on adrenaline and champagne. The bar down the street from my hotel, though, was its own little world: dim light, jazz murmuring low, the scent of whisky and sea air bleeding in through the open doors.
I slipped onto a stool at the far end of the sleek bar, the glass surface cool against my bare arms. I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. My hair was still wind-tangled from the beach, salt clinging to the ends.
The bartender approached and I met his eye briefly, just long enough to place my order.
“Whisky, neat.” No ice. No patience.
I should have gone back to my room, uploaded my notes, hidden the USB somewhere safer than my bag. But my hands were still shaking—not with fear, exactly. With the knowledge that I was now holding something that could tear the crown off Obsidian’s empire.
The bartender slid my drink across the counter. I took a sip, the burn cutting through the haze. For a few moments, I let myself breathe.
Then the air shifted.
I saw him in the mirror first, framed by the golden glow of the shelves behind the bar. Aleksandr Volkov. No race suit, no cameras, no handlers—just black jeans, a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, Laurent Échelon watch glinting in the softlights of the bar. Every inch still controlled. Every movement still deliberate.
Of all the bars in Melbourne.
My first instinct was to leave. The second was to stay.
I watched his reflection as he took the stool two seats away, nodding to the bartender. “Vodka. Straight.” His voice was quieter than in the press pen—lower, rougher, stripped of its PR polish.
He didn’t look my way at first, though I could see the flicker of awareness in his posture, that subtle tightening when someone recognises a presence before they turn.
As his glass was placed on the bar in front of him, his eyes met mine in the mirror. He tilted his glass briefly, as if toasting, then knocked the liquor back in one gulp. He turned to leave but stalled, half on his stool, one foot on the floor. He looked at me directly and heaved a sigh, shaking his head.
“What?” I asked, voice sharper than I intended. My nerves were on edge. Was it a coincidence that he’d walked into the exact same bar as me right after my clandestine meeting with someone with knowledge of his team cheating?
“You’re everywhere I turn, Ms Archer. I can’t seem to get away from you. Why is that?”
“It’s a small community.”
“No it isn’t.” A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Over in the far corner of the bar, a group of people sporting Nova colours of bright pink and cobalt blue roared with laughter and both of us glanced in their direction.
Volkov moved closer to me, close enough for his cologne to wash over me. He planted a hand on the bar right in front of me and dipped his head level with my ear.
“If you keep digging, you may find yourself digging your own grave.” His voice was barely above a whisper, his Estonian accent thicker than normal and laced with venom.
“Is that a threat, Champion?” I asked, incredulous and wishing to God I’d hit record on my phone.
“No,” he said, blanching as if I’d doused him with ice water. “A warning. Go home. Find another story.”
“Give me something on the record.”
“You’ve had enough of that from me. You’re chasing a ghost. Vapour. Nothing more. Let it go.”
He spun away and stalked out through the terrace doors. I watched him go, pulse still hammering in my throat. For a man so sure of himself, he looked almost… afraid. And that told me everything I needed to know.
“Damn.” I pulled out my phone and typed out a message to my editor. I checked the time and did the maths quickly in my head. Not yet midnight here, lunch time there. With a nod, I hit send.
Got the dirt. It’s top tier. I’ll have more soon. But O are running scared. Any idea who I speak to about ECU code?
I finished my drink and left the bar, stepping out into the cool night. I looked left and right and caught sight of Volkov’s tall frame marching down the brightly lit street, his hands deep in his pockets. I pressed my tongue to the inside of my top teeth, itching to run after him in search of a quote, but I got the feeling I wouldn’t get anything out of him now.
My phone buzzed in my hand and I raised it to see a reply from Graham.
