Page 1

Thomas

September

Singapore

I’m watching a crash in slow motion.

In my mirrors, I can’t tell exactly how many cars are mangled in the barriers behind me, flames flickering around them. All I know for certain is that no one is going to walk away from it unscathed—if they walk away at all.

“Red flag, Thomas,” my race engineer says needlessly over the radio. “Repeat, red flag. Make your way to the pit lane.”

I don’t reply. I can’t do anything but gaze back at the black plumes and the flashing lights and the horror continuing to unfold, amazed that I’m not in it. I so nearly was.

It’s easy to forget how dangerous Formula 1 can be. So few of us die on-track these days that we sometimes dismiss the risks we take every time we climb into the car. But lives can so easily be lost. And death isn’t always the worst fate.

“Are they out?” I ask when I find my voice. I won’t press for more details. I don’t want to know. Not yet.

The man is silent. My thundering heart is the only sound in my ears.

“Come on, tell me.” I’m tracking team colors as I drive to the pit lane entrance, but I don’t see enough of any. “Are they out of the cars?”

Again, I get no answer. It’s not until I’m parked and trying to wrench myself out of the cockpit to better see who else has pulled in that he speaks to me.

“Two of them are out,” he finally replies. “Zaid Yousef. And Axel Bergmüller. They’re with the medics.”

A sick rush of relief hits me, and it’s compounded when I spot the other McMorris car behind me. My teammate didn’t get caught up in the chaos.

“And the others?” I push. I can’t put it off any longer. “Who else was involved?”

His answer comes quickly this time. “Dev Anderson, but he avoided the worst of it. He’s okay. Managed to walk away on his own.”

I’m still scanning cars and drivers, trying to figure out who’s missing. There’s only twenty of us. It shouldn’t be hard.

I clock it then. “And Lorenzo?”

My engineer exhales long and slow, leaving my stomach to drop. I’ve had trouble with Lorenzo Castellucci in the past. He’s earned his reputation for being an on-track terrorist time and time again. I’ve been a victim of his reckless driving and his hunger to prove himself as the son of a four-time world champion, resulting in crashes and far too many close calls. Deep down, I’ve always hated him for it.

But I’d never wish this on him. On anyone.

Except I did. I said as much in a moment when I didn’t think anyone malicious was listening. But they were. Of course they were. Now it’s out there in the worst possible way, set to haunt me forever, whether Lorenzo is okay or not.

I’ve cursed us both. And I don’t know if either one of us is going to survive it.