Page 86 of Overtake
Two more cars pass before Nico exits into P10, just barely scraping the points.
Rox laughs. “Message from Wyn. He says, ‘Get your rear in gear, Bunny Boy.’”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
P1 comes as a surprise,until I see Nico’s puncture. His dark blue car limps toward the pit lane while I focus on keeping my car’s wayward rear end in check.
“Belmonte boxing,” Bowie reports. “You’re race leader.”
The car steps out again through turn 11. Every corner’s a negotiation between what the car wants to do and what I need it to do.
“Where’s Reece?”
“P3 behind Lynch.”
Bloody hell.If he’d started closer, I’d’ve swapped places with him. My teammate’s got better pace than me because his car isn’t trying to kiss the barrier in every corner.
“Belmonte is back on track at P10 on mediums. Reece has DRS and team orders.”
Sure enough, Reece makes his move stick, roaring up the finish line straight and diving past Lynch Sutton into P2 as they swing through turn 1. Team orders means he’ll cover my back, but I hope he remembers what I said about taking his chance. Meanwhile, somewhere behind all of us, El Conejo’s probably plotting his recovery drive. I know him. He’s hunting us down like we’re the rabbits and he wants rabbit borracho for dinner.
“Focus forward,” Bowie reminds me. “Manage the rear.”
Easier said than done. The car feels like it’s skating on marbles, requiring perfect inputs to keep it pointing in the right direction. I can’t afford any mistakes or one moment of lost concentration.
“Gap to Reece one point two,” Bowie updates. “Wyn just passed Sutton into third.”
“Gap?”
“One point four behind Reece. And Belmonte’s grabbing fastest laps. He’s up to P8.”
“How many laps remain?”
“Ten. You can do this, Petra.”
“Right. Call them.”
“Will do.”
The car is testing every skill I’ve got. The rear end gets trickier as the tires wear, making each correction more crucial than the last.
“Lap 8. Reece holding station,” Bowie updates. “Belmonte’s taken P7. And has DRS for, yeah, he’s got P6 from McBride and set another fastest lap.”
Every lap. Of course he is. Using those fresh medium tires to full effect, dashing through the field. This is why they call him El Conejo.
“Rear temps climbing,” Bowie warns. “Easy through 15.”
“What’s the lap?”
“Six to go, Petra.”
The car snaps sideways, but I catch it. Barely. Behind me, Reece keeps up honest pressure. He’s not attacking, but he’s ready to pounce if I make a mistake. He’s a good teammate and a better rival.
“Belmonte’s past Lynch.” Bowie’s voice stays steady. “P4 now. The gap is four point two seconds.”
“Fuck me,” I mutter. Four seconds with fresher mediums and a properly functioning car. While I’m wrestling this beast through every corner, trying to?—
The rear steps out again. Hard correction.
