Page 177 of Knot So Fast
"Good." His voice drops lower. "Katie's in position. Whatever happens, we've got eyes on everything. Every move Terek makes is being recorded."
I nod, then immediately regret it as the world spins. The concussion is getting worse, or maybe it's the blood loss catching up, or maybe it's just my body finally saying "enough is enough."
But I can't stop now. Not when we're this close.
The walk to my car feels like a marathon. Each step requires conscious effort, my body screaming protests that I ruthlessly ignore. The Rebecca Chen disguise is good enough to fool the media and other teams, but anyone who really knows me would spot the difference in my gait, the way I'm favoring my left side where the ribs are worst.
Car number three sits waiting, polished to perfection, looking exactly like it did before someone tried to kill me in its predecessor. The team has done an amazing job preparing it, but I can't help the shudder that runs through me as I approach.
Last time I got in a Formula One car, I ended up dying three times.
But that's the thing about being a Phoenix—we're built for resurrection.
Dex's voice crackles through the garage speakers, his commentary reaching us from the broadcast booth: "And we'rejust minutes away from the start of the Grand Sphynx, the race that will decide this year's championship. Titan Racing's Lachlan Wolfe needs just a fifth-place finish to secure his fifth consecutive title, but with substitute driver Rebecca Chen replacing the injured Auren Vale, nothing is certain."
If only he knew.
The mechanics help me into the car, and the familiar embrace of the cockpit is both comforting and terrifying. Everything is exactly where it should be—steering wheel at the perfect angle, pedals adjusted for my height, the drink system tube positioned within easy reach.
But my body doesn't fit the same way it did before. The broken ribs make it hard to sit properly, the bruising on my back screams against the seat, and my left hand is shaking from nerve damage I haven't told anyone about.
"Radio check," Harrison's voice comes through clear.
"Loud and clear," I respond, grateful that the radio distortion hides any pain in my voice.
"Alright, Rebecca," he says, and I can hear the stress in his voice. This isn't the driver he prepared for, the one he's been drilling strategy with. "Remember, we just need points. Don't be a hero. Bring it home safe."
If only he knew the irony of telling Auren Vale not to be a hero.
The formation lap begins, and I follow the field out onto the Yas Marina circuit. The track is a ribbon of lights in the growing darkness, the floodlights turning everything into a surreal dreamscape. Twenty-three cars snake through the corners, warming tires and brakes, preparing for battle.
My body is already screaming. Every gear change sends lightning through my ribs, every brake application makes my damaged nerves fire randomly. The morphine is fading fasterthan anticipated, probably burned through by adrenaline and the sheer effort of pretending to be okay.
But I've raced through worse. I've raced through fire, through attempts on my life, through memory loss and heartbreak and betrayal.
What's a little pain compared to that?
"Fifteen seconds to lights," Harrison announces.
I position my car in eighth place—Rebecca's qualifying position—and try to center myself. The pain fades to background noise as years of training take over. This is what I was born to do, what my body remembers even when my mind forgot.
The lights begin their sequence. One red. Two red. Three.
My broken ribs protest as I lean forward slightly, finding that perfect balance between reaction and anticipation.
Four lights. Five.
The engine screams beneath me, 15,000 RPM of barely controlled violence. Around me, twenty-two other engines sing the same violent song, but I'm only listening to one—Lachlan's, five places ahead, carrying all our hopes.
The lights hold for an eternity compressed into seconds.
Then darkness. Then chaos.
Then the release of twenty-three cars launching toward glory or disaster, with no way to know which until the checkered flag falls.
Twenty-three laps to prove the truth.
Twenty-three laps to expose a traitor.
