Page 86 of Knot So Fast (Speedverse #1)

He kisses my helmet where my mouth would be, a gesture that's both ridiculous and perfect. Then he's helping me to my feet, steadying me when the world tilts alarmingly.

"Thirty minutes," I remind him as we head for the door. "Make them count."

"Twenty-three laps," he counters. "I'll make it happen in twenty if I have to."

We exit the closet to find the garage in organized chaos. Final checks are being run, tire pressures adjusted, fuel loads confirmed. Terek is standing by the pit wall, clipboard in hand, playing the part of concerned team manager to perfection.

The fury that rises in my throat tastes like bile and blood. This man, who we trusted with our careers, our safety, our lives, has been systematically trying to destroy us for money. The urge to walk over there and put my fist through his face is almost overwhelming.

But that would blow my cover. And we need him to think his plan is working right up until the moment it spectacularly doesn't.

Kieran appears at my elbow, and even though he's not supposed to know it's me, his hand squeezes my shoulder in a way that says he's figured it out.

"Rebecca," he says carefully, "you need any adjustments to the car?"

"Just make sure the brakes work," I reply, and I see him flinch at the reminder of what happened last time.

"Triple-checked," he assures me. "By me personally. No one else has touched them."

The meaning is clear—he doesn't trust anyone else in the garage right now. Good. Paranoia will keep us alive long enough to expose the truth.

Luke appears next, and the way his eyes track over me, cataloging injuries he can't see but knows are there, makes my chest tight with affection.

"Comm check?" he says, handing me my earpiece.

"Crystal clear," I confirm after fitting it in place.

"Good." His voice drops lower. "Katie's in position. Whatever happens, we've got eyes on everything. Every move Terek makes is being recorded."

I nod, then immediately regret it as the world spins. The concussion is getting worse, or maybe it's the blood loss catching up, or maybe it's just my body finally saying "enough is enough."

But I can't stop now. Not when we're this close.

The walk to my car feels like a marathon.

Each step requires conscious effort, my body screaming protests that I ruthlessly ignore.

The Rebecca Chen disguise is good enough to fool the media and other teams, but anyone who really knows me would spot the difference in my gait, the way I'm favoring my left side where the ribs are worst.

Car number three sits waiting, polished to perfection, looking exactly like it did before someone tried to kill me in its predecessor. The team has done an amazing job preparing it, but I can't help the shudder that runs through me as I approach.

Last time I got in a Formula One car, I ended up dying three times.

But that's the thing about being a Phoenix—we're built for resurrection.

Dex's voice crackles through the garage speakers, his commentary reaching us from the broadcast booth: "And we're just minutes away from the start of the Grand Sphynx, the race that will decide this year's championship.

Titan Racing's Lachlan Wolfe needs just a fifth-place finish to secure his fifth consecutive title, but with substitute driver Rebecca Chen replacing the injured Auren Vale, nothing is certain. "

If only he knew.

The mechanics help me into the car, and the familiar embrace of the cockpit is both comforting and terrifying. Everything is exactly where it should be—steering wheel at the perfect angle, pedals adjusted for my height, the drink system tube positioned within easy reach.

But my body doesn't fit the same way it did before. The broken ribs make it hard to sit properly, the bruising on my back screams against the seat, and my left hand is shaking from nerve damage I haven't told anyone about.

"Radio check," Harrison's voice comes through clear.

"Loud and clear," I respond, grateful that the radio distortion hides any pain in my voice.

"Alright, Rebecca," he says, and I can hear the stress in his voice. This isn't the driver he prepared for, the one he's been drilling strategy with. "Remember, we just need points. Don't be a hero. Bring it home safe."

If only he knew the irony of telling Auren Vale not to be a hero.

The formation lap begins, and I follow the field out onto the Yas Marina circuit. The track is a ribbon of lights in the growing darkness, the floodlights turning everything into a surreal dreamscape. Twenty-three cars snake through the corners, warming tires and brakes, preparing for battle.

My body is already screaming. Every gear change sends lightning through my ribs, every brake application makes my damaged nerves fire randomly. The morphine is fading faster than anticipated, probably burned through by adrenaline and the sheer effort of pretending to be okay.

But I've raced through worse. I've raced through fire, through attempts on my life, through memory loss and heartbreak and betrayal.

What's a little pain compared to that?

"Fifteen seconds to lights," Harrison announces.

I position my car in eighth place—Rebecca's qualifying position—and try to center myself. The pain fades to background noise as years of training take over. This is what I was born to do, what my body remembers even when my mind forgot.

The lights begin their sequence. One red. Two red. Three.

My broken ribs protest as I lean forward slightly, finding that perfect balance between reaction and anticipation.

Four lights. Five.

The engine screams beneath me, 15,000 RPM of barely controlled violence. Around me, twenty-two other engines sing the same violent song, but I'm only listening to one—Lachlan's, five places ahead, carrying all our hopes.

The lights hold for an eternity compressed into seconds.

Then darkness. Then chaos.

Then the release of twenty-three cars launching toward glory or disaster, with no way to know which until the checkered flag falls.

Twenty-three laps to prove the truth.

Twenty-three laps to expose a traitor.

Twenty-three laps to save everything we've worked for.

The morphine will last maybe ten if I'm lucky.

But I'm Auren fucking Vale, and I've already died three times this week.

What's one more impossible challenge?

I slam the throttle down and dive into the first corner, the car responding like it missed me as much as I missed it. The pain disappears, replaced by pure focus, pure instinct, pure racing.

Terek thinks he's won. Thinks his plan is perfect. Thinks we're all pawns in his game.

He's about to learn what happens when you try to kill a Phoenix.

We just come back stronger.

And angrier.

And with parents who have very creative ideas about justice.

"Let's fucking go," I whisper into my helmet, and throw the car into turn two like my life depends on it.

Because maybe it does.

But more importantly, the truth depends on it.

And I'll be damned if I let Terek win after everything he's put us through.

The race is on.