Page 155 of Knot So Fast
I dive into the pit lane, Dimitri following like a shadow. Our crews work their magic—tires off and on in under three seconds, a perfectly choreographed dance of efficiency. We release together, still nose to tail, rejoining the track in almost the same positions.
But something's off.
The first corner out of the pits, I hit the brake pedal and the response isn't immediate. There's a longer travel than there should be, a sponginess that makes my blood run cold. I pump the pedal, trying to build pressure, and it comes back—sort of.
"Something's wrong," I report, trying to keep my voice level.
Dex's commentary filters through the broadcast that's playing in the garage: "Looks like both Vale and Volkov are struggling out of the pits. Could be cold tires, but something seems odd with both cars."
"What's wrong?" Lachlan's voice cuts through, sharp with concern.
"Eyes on the prize, Wolf," I tell him, not wanting to distract him from his own race. I switch off the main channel, going to a private frequency with just my engineer.
The brake pedal is getting worse with each corner. What started as extended travel is becoming a genuine problem. I'm having to brake earlier, pump the pedal to build any pressure at all. The car is still stopping, but barely, and we're approachingthe hairpin—the slowest corner on the calendar, requiring massive deceleration from over 300 kph.
"Fuck," I mutter, standing on the brakes and feeling almost nothing. The wall approaches at terrifying speed, and I have to use every trick I know—downshifting aggressively to use engine braking, trail braking with what little pressure I have, even brushing the grass to scrub speed.
I make it through, but barely. When I glance in my mirrors, Dimitri is having the same problem—his car washing wide, almost collecting the barrier on exit.
We make eye contact for a split second as we accelerate down the back straight, and I can see the panic in his eyes that probably mirrors my own. We're both driving compromised cars at speeds that could kill us, and there's nothing we can do about it except try to survive.
"Harrison, brakes are jammed," I finally admit, the words coming out steady despite the terror crawling up my spine. "Almost no pressure. I'm driving on engine braking and prayer."
The response is immediate chaos in my ears—Harrison swearing, Terek demanding information, engineers scrambling to understand how this could have happened. But I tune it all out because the chicane is coming up—the one that feeds onto the main straight.
I'm going too fast. Way too fast. The brake pedal goes to the floor with zero response this time, and I know with crystalline clarity that I'm not going to make the corner. Physics doesn't care about skill or bravery—without brakes, at this speed, the car is going to go straight on.
The barrier rushes toward me, and I'm already bracing for impact, trying to position my body to absorb the hit, when Dimitri's car slides into mine.
The contact is deliberate—I can tell from the angle, the precision of it. He's not trying to pass or push me out of the way.He's using his car to redirect mine, sacrificing his own race to change my trajectory from a head-on impact with the barrier to something more survivable.
We go off together, our cars locked in a violent ballet as we leave the track. The gravel trap does nothing to slow us—we skip across it like stones on water. Then we hit the grass and everything goes wrong.
My car catches something—a drain cover, a bump, who knows—and suddenly I'm airborne. The world goes upside down, right side up, upside down again. Each impact is like being hit by a heavyweight boxer, my body slamming against the harness with enough force to drive the air from my lungs.
When the world finally stops spinning, I'm hanging upside down, held in place by my harness. The smell hits immediately—gasoline, hot metal, and something burning. Blood is dripping from my nose, running up my forehead in the inverted position.
I try to focus, to process what just happened, but my vision grays out and suddenly?—
I'm in Lucius's penthouse, standing in his living room with fury coursing through my veins like molten metal.
"The pack doesn't give a shit about you, Lucius!" I'm screaming, my voice raw with emotion. "It's so fucking obvious and you're acting like some blind fool begging for attention!"
He's standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Monaco, his posture defensive, arms crossed. "I don't need their attention," he argues, but even in the memory—because this has to be a memory—I can hear the lie in it.
"Then why are you doing what they're telling you?!" I demand, gesturing wildly at something I can't quite see in the peripheral of the memory. "You're risking losing your brother, your friends, ME!"
"This is work," he says, jaw clenched. "It's different."
"OUR work!" The words tear from my throat. "We're all in this ride together and you're acting like some lone ranger that has to carry the burden! You don't have to prove anything to them!"
"I'm sticking with it," he says, turning away from me, and the gesture is so final it feels like a door slamming.
"Fine!" I hear myself say, and the pain in my voice makes my chest ache even in the present. "Stick with them and watch you lose everything you love, including me!"
I'm jolted back to the present by Lachlan's voice screaming through the radio.
"AUREN! AUREN, ANSWER ME!"
