Page 53 of Hyperspeed
“They’re fine,” I snapped.
Though we both knew that was bullshit.
He hummed, smug as hell. “Fine and sticky.”
Just as Rev’s voice cut out, my pressure sensors lit up red. I didn’t need the warning; I felt it. As I hit the penultimate turn before the pit lane, a robotic voice echoed in my helmet.
“Warning. Surface integrity compromised.”
My rear tyres fishtailed. The track shimmered with heat, warping the air. From the groan of the wheels, they sounded like they might rip clean off. I kept going. No choice.
Rev pulled up beside me. On the last turn, he went for it again, and this time, he made it.
His vehicle pushed me wide, skating the edge of the track. Not illegal, but damn close. As he cut in front, I caught a flash of his gloved hand flipping me off.
Then the world spun sideways.
He’d been so damn close his rear wheel clipped mine, and I was gone, spinning off the track toward the barrier. I fought, desperate to pull it back, but the tyres were finished. They peeled apart under me, melting and shredding like confetti.
Then—
SMACK!
The wall hit hard. Everything jolted. Smoke curled around the vehicle, thick and slow, cloaking me as the systems went dark.
I was out.
DNF.
“Ka . . . okay . . . medi . . . it’s . . . right . . .” Sam’s broken words crackled through the comms, tangled with the high-pitched ringing in my ears.
I climbed out of the vehicle, every movement stiff, the heat clawing through my suit. Thank fuck I’d kept my gloves on. The metal was molten.
Track stewards sprinted over. One yanked me back while another unloaded foam onto the flames licking the vehicle’s nose. Smoke billowed. The fire hissed. My pulse hammered in my throat.
My poor baby was going to need some serious TLC before the next race.
A couple of stewards grabbed me, pulling me back as the others fought the stubborn flames. The heat made the air shimmer, too dry for quick work. They’d need the full fire crew to finish the job.
A medical shuttle touched down nearby, its white cross stark against the haze. A medic jumped out, clutching a portable first aid kit like a lifeline.
“Mr Mercer,” they said, raising the visor on my helmet to see my eyes. “Did you hit your head?”
“I took a couple of whacks, but my helmet bore the brunt of it.”
They shone a small torch into my eyes. I winced, but the absence of any shooting pain through my brain was good. Right?
“No sign of concussion,” they confirmed, and I removed my helmet.
Sweat glued my hair to the sides of my face, and I could feel it dripping down my body. It was pretty swampy under my suit, and I was dying to go home and get into bed.
A pity party was just what I needed. But it wasn’t in the cards just yet. No doubt I’d have post-race interviews to do, followed by a check-in with the team and Jax.
And . . . the podium. Where Rev would likely stand in first place after running me off the track.
Once the medic gave the all-clear, they hauled me back to the paddock, but after that everything blurred, my vision clouded with anger.
If the rookie hadn’t pushed so close, if he hadn’t pulled that borderline dirty move, I would have made it to the pit lane. I would still be out there, choking him out with my exhaust.
