Page 7 of Burn
“You’re doing it, Max, you’re doing it!” Jack’s voice hums with excitement.
“Payback,” I growl. Morishita had overtaken me right after the first pit stop and had been in the lead despite my starting the race on pole position. Now I’m snatching victory from the jaws of defeat, and I pull ahead of my competition on the straightaway.
“One more lap. You’ve got this, Max.” Jack’s tone is still filled with tension, but with a definite jubilant tone.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Morishita drive slightly off the track and cut the chicane, allowing me a wider lead. Even over the roar of the car’s engine I can hear the cheering in the stands. There’s nothing like the approval of the fans, and that’s one of the things keeping me in the sport.
“Two car lead now, twenty meters. Bring it home, Becker.”
I can feel the familiar tingling in my balls, the sensation that tells me I’m going to win the race. I accelerate a little harder for good measure, and then comes a loudpop.
“What’s going on?” I yell into my earpiece.
The car slows from 200 miles per hour to 180. I press the accelerator all the way down but the car doesn’t respond. Jack’s going nuts in my ear. 160. 150. 120.
“What the hell?” I yell.
“Pull aside! Pull aside! It’s the engine. We can see.” Jack and the team have visuals on all the inner workings of my car from the garage, and the guys groan and shout as Morishita passes me.
“No, I’m going to try to bring it in.”
“Max, pull over. I repeat, pull over! It’s dangerous!”
Dammit, no. If I can somehow glide to the finish line, it’ll count as a full race. I might even eke out a point or two. If I pull over, it’s a DNF.
There’s another pop, and wisp of smoke.Scheisse. Shit. Merda.There aren’t enough languages to swear in. I’m only half a track away from the finish line, and there’s no way I’m going to make it. Car after car zooms around me, and I slap my hand on the steering wheel while I guide the car onto the gravel.
The crowd’s going even wilder now, but not for the right reasons. Like me, they’re upset that I—the number one driver and the top contender for the championship—have a big, fat DNF for the important Miami race.
I lift myself out of the car as my competition hurtles past me some fifty yards away while going a hundred and fifty miles per hour.
I grip the edge of the car, my fingers digging into the fiberglass. I heave myself up and out, searching for traction on the ground with my feet. The soles of my shoes make a crunching sound on the gravel. I stand back to look at the car. The front end is engulfed in smoke, and probably soon flames.
The smell of burning plastic and metal fills the air, and I want to spit on the car.
Du Hurensohn. You son of a bitch.
Other drivers would have a big, dramatic display of disappointment right now, but not me. I don’t even take off my helmet as I make the walk of shame back to the garage.
In my mind, however, I’m losing my shit.
When I reach the pit, I pull off my helmet. The words “forced to retire after a certain victory” waft from the announcer on the loudspeaker. I want to punch something but keep that emotion bottled inside me. Instead, I grit my teeth so hard that I can feel pain in my sinuses.
It’s so hot that the air barely registers on my sweat-drenched face. I don’t acknowledge the rest of the team or the few VIPs in the garage as I stalk up to Jack and pull him aside. “What the fuck?”
The lanky Australian engineer shakes his head. “I know. I know. The engine crapped the bed, mate. It’s the worst luck. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
“Did Esteban have any problems with his car?” My younger teammate—a guy who is affable, kind, and above all, scandal-free—has been doing incredibly well for his first year in Formula World.
Jack shakes his head. “Only your car. The engineers are looking into it. I’m really sorry, Max.”
He’s known me long enough to understand that I don’t want a barrage of questions. We’ve worked together on and off for seven years now, both as competitors and on the same teams. This is our second team together, and the first year he’s my engineer.
I lean against the wall and run a hand through my hair, which is damp with perspiration. I feel like punching something but would never debase myself with such a public show of emotion.
“Have you seen Lucas?” I ask Jack.
“I’ll find him.” Jack walks off, and he yells to the team over the roar of the crowd. “Anyone seen Silva?”