Page 47 of Close Contact
Lap after lap, the pressure didn’t ease.Callum’srelentless assault was like a tide eroding rock, persistent and unyielding.Behind him, Marco was waiting for his moment, his calculated style a sharp contrast toCallum’saggression. I supposed that was why they made for iconic teammates. They were a good fit together.
WithCallumfloating betweenDRSrange, and Marco not far behind him, I realized this whole race was going to be like a game of chess. Reflexes and resolve were going to be my saving graces against their calculated and deliberate driving.
“Fraser’s tires are starting to degrade,” my engineer reported on lap 20. “Box this lap. We’ll undercut.”
I glanced in my mirrors, my instincts tugging in the opposite direction. Fraser’s line was loose, his braking hesitant. He wasn’t ready to pit yet, and if I boxed now, I’d hand him track position. My stomach twisted at the thought of giving up my first victory.
“Negative,” I said, my voice steady. “Let him pit first.”
“Aurélie, this is a team call.”
“And I’m the one in the car.” I pushed harder, and the gap betweenCallumand me stretched. Two laps later, he dove into the pits, followed by Marco.
“Box now,” my engineer insisted.
I glanced up, my eyes catching the dark clouds gathering overhead. The air felt heavier, cooler, a prelude to the rain Monaco was known for. My gut still told me to wait.
“Negative,” I repeated. “If the rain comes, I want inters.”
“Aurélie, we need to stay ahead on strategy.”
“Trust me. You’re the one who’s supposed to monitor the rain, not me. I’m the one driving, so let me fucking drive!”
They didn’t respond, but I could imagine the frustration back in the garage. I didn’t care. My tires weren’t slipping yet, and the longer I stayed out, the fresher they’d be for the remainder of the race—a massive advantage over the Vanguards behind me. And I needed every advantage I could get.
The laps ticked by, and with them came the inevitable decline of my tires. By lap 27, thegraininghad started, the rear slipping slightly under acceleration out ofPortier. My engineer’s voice crackled in my ear. “Box this lap. We’ll swap to inters.”
“Negative,” I replied, biting back the frustration in my voice. The track was still dry, and I needed to stretch these tires as far as they’d go. If the rain came—and it would, judging by the rapid darkening of the clouds—I’d need the full wets to finish the race strong. I couldn’t pit twice.
“Radar shows class three or four rain in approximately ten minutes, lasting for upwards of thirty minutes.”
Putain.That would be heavy rain.DRSwouldn’t be enabled, but I would likely need full wets. “Okay. We wait until we see what class the rain will be.”
The first droplets hit my visor on lap 32, tiny pinpricks that blurred the edges of my vision. My engineer’s voice crackled in my ear. “Rain incoming. Box for inters.”
The clouds were darker now, rolling in fast, and the rain began to fall in earnest.
“Aurélie, box this lap,” he repeated. “Inters are ready. Please confirm.”
Something didn’t feel right. The tires were holding—barely—butCallumand Marco weren’t catching me as fast as I’d expected. They’d pitted for inters, but the rain wasn’t heavy enough yet. I could see them struggling quite a ways back, their cars sliding wide in the corners.
Inters may not be enough. I grew up in the south of France, and I knew the weather patterns here.
“How far back are Fraser andBianchi?”
“Gap to Fraser is three point five, gap toBianchiis four point six.”
“Kimi and Morel?”
“Battling for fourth. They keep overtaking each other. Gap toKimiinP4is currently seventeen point three.”
Good.
“Box, Aurélie.”
“Negative,” I said, my voice strained against the G-forces as I calculated it. “Rain’s not bad enough yet, but we’ll need full wets.”
Silence. Then a burst of static. “Aurélie, box?—”
