Read Chapter 15: The Whiskey

The bar was called The Whiskey, and it smelled of stale smoke and secrets. Jack found Claire in a corner booth, nursing a glass of something amber, her eyes darting to the door every few seconds. She looked smaller than she had in the bar in Nice—wired, pale, a woman running on adrenaline and fear.

He slid into the seat across from her. "You look like you haven't slept."

"I haven't." She pushed a glass toward him. "Whiskey. You'll need it."

Jack didn't touch it. "What's on the drive?"

Claire glanced around the room before leaning in. The bar was half-empty, mostly old men and couples deep in their own conversations. No one was watching. Not yet.

"Aethel runs the insurance for half the grid," she said quietly. "Claims, payouts, risk assessment. Standard corporate stuff. But last year I started seeing anomalies in the data. Transfers going out to a shell company called Rivière Partners. Small amounts, frequent. Like clockwork, every race weekend."

"Rivière Partners," Jack repeated. The name had been in the ledger. "Connected to the Palace?"

Claire nodded. Her fingers trembled around her glass. "The Monégasque Royal Family has fingers in everything here. But this isn't charity work. These transfers match dates. Crash dates."

Jack's jaw tightened. "Luca's crash."

"Luca's crash. And three others in feeder series over the past two years. All fatal. All ruled accidents." She reached into her bag and slid a small black USB drive across the table. "This is everything. Transfers, timestamps, account numbers. If they trace it back to me, I'm dead."

Jack's hand covered the drive. It was warm, plastic, unremarkable. He had risked his life for less. "Why are you doing this?"

Claire exhaled, a harsh sound. "Because I knew Luca. Not well, but we spoke a few times at sponsor events. He was kind. And after he died, I found a claim form that had been pre-filed eight weeks before his crash. Someone knew he was going to die before it happened."

A cold knot tightened in Jack's stomach. "Pre-filed."

"Insurance against a known loss." Claire's voice dropped to a whisper. "That's not an accident. That's a contract."

Jack pocketed the drive. "Where are you staying?"

"Somewhere safe. André arranged it—a friend's flat in the old town. I don't think anyone followed me." She said it like she was trying to convince herself.

"I should go." Jack stood. "If anyone saw us together—"

"Wait." Claire's hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "There's something else. Something I didn't put on the drive."

Jack sat back down. "What?"

"The name on the shell company's signatory account. It's not a banker or a lawyer." Claire's eyes met his. "It's Viktor Steiner."

Jack felt the floor shift. Fenice's sporting director. The man who had smiled at him through dinner, offered veiled threats about cooperation, shaken his hand on the grid. "Steiner's been running the money?"

"Rivière Partners is registered in his wife's maiden name, but the signatory is his. I cross-referenced the handwriting on the corporate filings." Claire released his wrist and grabbed her glass, draining it in one swallow. "He's not just a team director. He's the collection agent."

Jack's mind raced. Philippe's ledger, the red-marked figures, the skull next to Luca's crash. Viktor was the operational arm. Philippe was the architect. And somewhere above them, the Palace collected its share.

"You need to get out of Monaco," Claire said. "After the race. Get the drive to the FIA, to the police, whoever you trust—but get out."

Jack opened his mouth to respond when the bar door swung open. A man stepped inside—heavy shoulders, a coat that didn't match the warm evening, a face Jack recognized from the bar in Nice.

Claire saw him too. The color drained from her face. "He found me."

Jack moved without thinking. He grabbed Claire's arm and pulled her out of the booth, toward the back of the bar. The man moved faster, cutting across the room with a purpose that parted the crowd like water.

"Back exit," Jack hissed at a passing waiter. The waiter blinked. Jack didn't wait for an answer—he spotted a door behind the bar, ducked under the counter, and dragged Claire through it.

The alley outside was narrow, brick-lined, and dark. Rain slicked the pavement. Claire stumbled on a loose stone, and Jack caught her elbow, keeping her upright.

"This way." He pulled her toward the street. The man's footsteps echoed behind them, heavy and quick.

They burst out onto a main road, cars streaming past, headlights catching the rain. Jack looked left, right—no police, no crowd, just a city that didn't know it was a war zone.

"Jack, he's coming." Claire's voice cracked.

Jack spun around. The man was ten meters away, closing fast.

"Give me the drive and you both walk away." His voice was flat. No accent Jack could place. Professional.

Jack wasn't a fighter. He was a driver. But he had spent ten years in the sport, and that meant he understood physics, leverage, and the value of a well-timed move.

He feinted left, then threw himself right, slamming his shoulder into the man's chest. The impact sent them both sprawling onto the wet pavement. Jack scrambled to his feet, reached back for Claire—

She was gone.

The man grabbed Jack's ankle and yanked. Jack went down hard, his chin cracking against the curb. Pain sparked through his skull. He twisted, kicked free, scrambled up.

Claire was running toward an alley on the opposite side of the street. The man pulled himself to his feet, reached into his coat.

Jack didn't stay to see what he pulled out. He ran for the alley, caught Claire's shoulder, and pushed her ahead of him into the dark.

They ran until Jack's lungs burned and Claire couldn't breathe at all. They emerged in a quiet residential street, a few tourists huddled under a restaurant awning, no one chasing them.

Claire bent over, hands on her knees, gasping. "He knew where I was. André's safehouse—no one knew that address."

Jack's blood ran cold. "André."

"No." Claire shook her head violently. "He wouldn't. He's clean."

"Then someone else is in the chain." Jack pulled out his phone—no messages. No missed calls. "You need to leave Monaco. Tonight."

Claire straightened. Her eyes were wet, but she was steadying herself. "Where am I supposed to go?"

"Nice," Jack said. "I know someone who can hide you."

He was thinking of Emile. But Emile was missing.

Claire nodded slowly. "And you?"

"I have qualifying tomorrow." Jack pocketed his phone. "And now I know who's really running this."

Claire gave him a look—pity, maybe. "You're a brave man, Jack Turner. Maybe too brave."

She turned and walked toward the taxi rank at the end of the street. Jack watched her go, the USB drive burning against his thigh.

He didn't sleep that night. When Sophie called at dawn, her voice was raw.

"Jack. They found her."

Jack's chest tightened. "Who?"

"Claire. In her apartment in the old town." Sophie paused. "She left a suicide note."

The world tilted. A woman who had drunk whiskey with him, who had run through the rain with him, who had looked him in the eye and said *I knew Luca*—that woman hadn't killed herself.

"They're cleaning up," Jack said. He could hear the cold in his own voice.

"I know." Sophie's breath came fast. "And Jack—there's a signature on the note."

"What?"

"An FIA steward certifies the death for insurance purposes." Sophie's voice broke. "The signature is André's. He certified it before she was even found."

The phone nearly slipped from Jack's hand. André. The one man he had trusted. The man who had introduced him to Claire.

Emile missing. Claire dead. André compromised. And somewhere in Philippe's study, the ledger that had started it all.

Jack closed his eyes. Qualifying was in six hours, and he was going to drive a car he didn't trust, for a team that wanted him dead, in a race that was rigged.

He opened them again. The sun was rising over the Mediterranean, gilding the rooftops of Monaco.

"Sophie," he said. "Decrypt that drive. I need to know everything before I get in that car."

"Jack, you can't seriously—"

"I have a death threat, a sabotaged car, and a USB drive that implicates a royal family." He started walking toward the garage. "Qualifying is the only place I'm safe. On track, no one can touch me."

Except the brake duct.

He didn't say that part out loud.