Page 2 of Full Throttle

“You’re a lap away,” Vance said. “Just keep focused.”

Dominic took a hard turn. “Copy.”

“We’re going to win this thing.” It sounded like an order. “Just remember, if you’re not first—”

“You’re last,” Dominic finished. “Got it.”

He slammed his foot on the pedal. The car skidded and he swore. The FIA was fucking mad not to call off the race; the conditions were beyond dangerous. But it was the last race of the season, and everything came down to this.

Duro Stallion versus Hydra Auto.

Dominic Hastings versus Anthony Sinclair.

Nobody wanted to call it off. Not until the checkered flag waved.

Spray washed over his dashboard. He could just make out the red glare of Cap’s lights, although it could have also been a one-eyed kraken for all he knew. His car was basically underwater.

“Gap?” Dominic asked.

Jeremiah’s voice was terse. “Less than a second.”

“We could win this whole thing, Jer.”

Jeremiah sighed. “Just watch the road.”

“When I win,” Dominic said, “will you get my name tattooed on your arm?”

His race engineer sounded exasperated. “Hastings.”

“Will you?”

“If you win us a championship,” Jeremiah said tightly, “I’ll get a tattoo of your whole goddamn face. How’s that?”

Dominic grinned. “You’re going to regret that.”

He barreled into a corner, turning the wheel just a little; the rain magnified every movement tenfold. He zipped past Cap, who gave him either a wave or an affectionate middle finger. Impossible to tell in these conditions.

“P2,” Jeremiah said.

Dominic gripped the steering wheel. He’d lost feeling in his fingers several laps ago, and his breath grated his lungs. Every jolt and bump rattled his teeth. One of his coaches had described driving in the rain like driving with a blindfold. He’d been wrong, though; it was more like trying to coax a rocket ship through a cluster of comets. Except that you were blind, and the rocket ship was also on fire.

Sinclair’s lights loomed ahead. They were twin pomegranates, tantalizingly close but just out of reach, like that tale his mother used to read: Le Supplice de Tantale. The Torment of Tantalus. A man forever grasping for a piece of fruit but never quite reaching it.

His frozen fingers tensed on the wheel.

“It’s not worth the risk,” Jeremiah said, anticipating his next thought. “Wait to overtake on the straight.”

A pulse pounded in Dominic’s throat. “Let me try.”

He wouldn’t have risked an overtake like that with Cap, but he’d risk it with Sinclair. Jeremiah exhaled.

“Hastings…”

He could hear the wariness in Jeremiah’s voice. Sinclair’s lights grew closer, flickering like fireflies in the darkness.

“Come on,” Dominic said. “One go.”

Jeremiah sighed. “It’s your goddamn funeral.”