Under it all, Bree felt that same low hum of dread she had carried for so long. The knowledge that things could go wrong in an instant, that someone else’s recklessness could still undo skill and caution and preparation, or by a bit of bad luck.
Only this time, someone had already removed the worst odds from the table. She had seen to that. The Red Dragons’ stolen advantage was sitting in an evidence locker somewhere, not hidden in a frame.
It helped. Not enough to make her calm, enough to keep her from folding in on herself.
Halfway through the race, a gust of wind kicked sand across the far section of the circuit. Several bikes wobbled; one ran wide, through the runoff, then rejoined safely.
Julie stayed planted.
Hank changed his line by inches, not feet; the adjustment so precise it looked almost casual. His body moved with the bike, loose but connected; a rider in harmony, not fighting for survival.
Bree let out a breath she'd been holding.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay, you’ve got this.”
With four laps to go, Mendes finally made a pass stick. He dived late into the left before the front straight, back tire chattering, the bike on the edge of grip. Hank ceded the corner instead of forcing it, tucked in behind, and waited.
It hurt to watch his number drop to P2 on the board.
It would hurt more if he let pride put him on the ground.
“Smart,” she murmured. “Be smart.”
He waited two laps.
On the penultimate lap, coming into the complex by the dunes, he made his move. Where Mendes braked in one smooth, late squeeze, Hank feathered the lever just a hair earlier, turned in a fraction deeper, picked the bike up a fraction sooner. It was the kind of difference you would never see on a casual ride down a coastal road. Here, it translated into drive.
Julie shot out of the curve with a cleaner exit and a stronger run. Side by side, then nose ahead. By the time they hit the short chute, Hank was in front again.
The stands exploded.
Bree clapped a hand over her mouth, laughter and something like a sob tangling together.
The last lap felt like it lasted an hour and a heartbeat at the same time. Every corner was a small miracle. Every straight, a test of faith.
When Hank came around the final turn with clear track behind him and pointed Julie at the checkered flag, she did not cheer; her voice would never have made it past the knot in her throat. The crowd did it for her, a wave of sound that crashed across the grandstand.
He crossed the line.
The graphic changed: P1 – H. JAMES.
Bree bowed her head and pressed her fingers hard into her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispered, to no one in particular, to any safety gods who might be listening, to Bryn, to the universe.
On the giant screen, she watched him complete the cool-down lap, sit up, and pat Julie’s tank. In parc fermé, Brian and Colby grabbed him, shaking him with delighted violence. Someone shoved a microphone in his face, and he said something, but she could not hear it now over the blood pounding in her ears.
She stayed long enough to see him step onto the top podium spot and take the trophy.
Then she slipped out while everyone else was still watching the stage.
Getting back to the hotel felt like moving through a dream. Her legs were shaky, her chest felt light and heavy at the same time. She kept the hat brim low and the glasses on until she reached the relative quiet of the service lane, then took them off and hugged them to her chest as she ducked back through the side door.
In the stairwell, where the concrete walls deadened the race noise to a distant hum, everything caught up.
She had broken her promise. She had gone out into the crowded world he had asked her to stay away from. Nothing bad had happened, but that did not erase the choice.
She stopped on the landing between floors and leaned her shoulder against the cool cinderblock.
