Page 30 of Double Apex

A podium isn’t enough anymore. Now I plan to take down Drew Powell and fuckingwin.

“Box this lap,” Phaedra says. “Let’s get the softs on.”

The expression “man plans, and God laughs” would not be inaccurate to describe what happens next. My own pit stop is at least athree-way clown fuck when the left front tyre’s wheel gun malfunctions. The tyre gunner is struggling and crosses his arms in the air to indicate a problem.

Fortunately, there are two wheel guns for each tyre, allowing for just such a failure, and it’s swapped out. We’re past twenty seconds and cold steel seems to settle in my gut as I acknowledge even a podium has likely slipped away.

My brain pivots to points—any.

I get the signal and speed away. But something is amiss. Did I imagine the mechanic’s posture and arm movement, glanced in my periphery, indicated a problem?

As I surge out of the pit lane and onto the track, I can feel it. Something’s off.

“What happened back there?” I ask Phaedra.

“One moment, Cos. Lars is talking with the crew chief.” It’s only a few heartbeats until she’s back. “The wheel’s not fitted correctly. You need to—”

“Fuck! What the shit?” I snap. “All right. I can bring her around.” I see the shimmy now, and slow down.

Cars are blasting past me, and I’ve received the black-and-orange flag indicating a mechanical problem. Seeing flashes of the wheel as the tyre starts to dance free, I realize I can’t make it to a run-off area without endangering everyone. I pull over.

Despite a potentially brilliant strategic choice, we were undone by a simple mechanical error. It’s maddening.

“Yellow flag,” Phaedra tells me. “It’s not your fault, Legs.”

The other cars whip past, orderly under the virtual safety car.

Merry fucking Christmas, guys, I think, releasing my harness as the track marshals trot out to meet my twelve-million-dollar paperweight.

After a race, all I want to do is take an ice bath, rehydrate, and sleep for at least ten hours. (Sometimes with company, but nosuch luck in Baku.) Viorica texts me Sunday night as I’m lying in bed, listening to music and doing meditative breathing.

Don’t reply now, she writes in Romanian.I know you must be exhausted. So sorry about the race. I am glad you’re safe, as always. There is information I need to share about the donor. Please call tomorrow.

I flick the table lamp on and call her.

“I did not mean to wake you,” she says.

“I couldn’t sleep. And I’m curious about this donor information.”

Viorica makes a reluctant humming noise. “We should speak in the morning. If we discuss this now, I’m concerned you may not sleep.”

“It’s better to tell me, so we can deal with it. Now you have me worried.” I pile pillows behind my back.

“First let me say this: he’s offering a quarter-billion leu.”

I suck in a breath. “A quarterbillion—with aB? That’s fifty million euros.”

“Yes. And with that money we could finish the children’s villa. All twelve houses, the adjoining school, and an on-site medical clinic.”

I pick up a glass of water from the bedside and sip. “For you to sound apprehensive, the attached conditions must be troubling.”

“Yes. The man is… Grigore Lupu.”

My hand clenches the glass so hard that I must consciously set it down or risk injuring myself. The water’s surface tremors like a storm.

Neither of us has spoken this man’s name in a decade.

My sister’s captor. The man who abused her innocence when she was a girl of sixteen and our uncle sold her to him.

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