Motorcycle racing is so fast-paced that before you know it, you’re several laps into the race. I tackle every stretch and every curve aggressively, maintaining the lead. I could go faster, but I agreed not to stray too far from Ares and Lev, who are head to head, about one length behind me.
Cal is a distant fourth on his BMW, and the thought that if we maintain these positions, he’s off the podium gives me a perverse sense of satisfaction.
Two-thirds into the race, my dad’s voice comes through the radio in my helmet. “Zara, it looks like it’s about to start raining.”
I was hoping the weather would hold until the end of the race, but the clouds that were covering the sky when we started have gotten darker, denser and lower on the horizon.
“Get ready for a tire change if it starts within the next three laps.” He warns me.
Three laps means just under five minutes if I keep my current speed. A pit stop so late in the race isn’t ideal. I’ll decide what to do depending on how hard it rains. “Copy.” I respond to my father.
When the first few raindrops hit the tarmac, they’re fine and are falling slowly. It looks more like drizzle than actual rain.
“Zara,” Dad says. “We’re ready if you want to stop.”
I know Ares and Lev will do whatever I decide. “What’s Cal doing?”
“It doesn’t look like he’s stopping.”
If I stop now, that’s going to give him an advantage I might not be able to make up when I return to the racetrack. In wet conditions, a few seconds can make the difference between winning and losing.
“I’m going to finish with these tires.” I decide.
“Copy.” Dad doesn’t argue with my decision. He knows as well as I do that as long as the rain doesn’t get heavier, I’m not going to need to slow down that much. And if I do slow down, so will Cal since he isn’t changing his tires either.
I know this isn’t an official race and we’re just competing for the glory and a tin trophy. Call me petty, but after the way he spoke to me earlier, I don’t want to give my ex any opportunity to get on that podium.
After five more laps, the rain has increased just marginally. That means we’re slowing down, but not that much. A pit stop at this point in the race, with only three laps to go, would be a huge mistake.
I’m ready to argue this point when I hear my father’s voice again.
But Dad isn’t trying to get me to do a pit stop.
“Doctor,” he uses his childhood nickname for me. “Watch out. A dirt bike just came out of one of the paddocks and it’s headed toward the racetrack.”
Fuck. It’s here. It’s the moment of truth.
Lev
I’ve been on high alert all day.
My spidey senses have been tingling like crazy, and I don’t think it’s a question of “if” the dirt bike shows up. The question is when.
So when John’s voice comes through my helmet’s radio to inform us that the dirt bike is coming for us, I’m ready.
I have one million questions about how they managed to hide from all the extra security, but the answers will have to wait until the end of the race.
“Ares,” I say. “Let’s get closer to her.”
“Copy.” He replies.
We’re on a slightly wider part of the track, so we can flank Zara’s Ducati. But once we get out of a larger curve, we call the spoon curve, there won’t be enough room for three bikes and we’ll have to go in front or behind her.
Our plan is to sandwich her between us so that the bastard who’s trying to hurt her will have to go through us to get to her.
Ares accelerates overtaking Zara’s Ducati, and I stay in the rear to watch her six.
The radio in my helmet crackles to life again, and I expect to hear John’s voice again, but it’s Chance’s distressed voice that comes through. “I knew you had to be involved, motherfucker. What the fuck did you do?”
