Read Chapter 17: Qualifying Sunday

The spare car hummed beneath Jack like a caged animal, its Ferrari engine idling with a menace that felt personal. Every sensor readout on the dash looked clean—fuel pressure, oil temp, tyre temps all within the green—but that meant nothing. Rinaldi knew what he was doing. He’d made the sabotage on the race car look like a brake failure, something a rookie mechanic could have caused by accident.

Qualifying was forty minutes away. Jack sat in the cockpit, helmet on, visor up, staring down the pit lane where the real cars—the ones that would decide the grid—waited in their bays. The Monaco circuit coiled beyond the garage walls, a glittering serpent of asphalt and guardrails that had swallowed Luca’s life six weeks ago. And now it was Jack’s turn to feed it.

“Sixty seconds, Jack,” came the voice in his earpiece—Valentina, his race engineer for this session, her tone clipped and professional. “Track temp’s dropping. Grip’s coming up.”

“Copy,” Jack said. He’d done this a thousand times. Run the out lap, push the warmers off, lay down a banker lap, then go for the kill. The mechanics had changed his tyres twice during the break, and he’d watched them do it—Sophie’s warning fresh in his mind. *Trust no one.* But he couldn’t watch everything.

The light went green. Jack pulled out of the garage and into the pit lane, the engine bellowing as he fed it throttle. The streets of Monaco narrowed around him as he exited the pits at Sainte Dévote, the first corner rushing up like a concrete fist. He took it clean, then powered down the hill toward Casino Square, the car’s chassis dancing over the bumps.

He pushed on his out lap, feeling the front end. The steering was tight, responsive. The aero balance felt neutral. Nothing wrong—yet.

“Box, box,” Valentina said. “We’re bringing you in for the banker.”

Jack flicked the wheel through the hairpin at the Grand Hotel, then dove into the tunnel, the sudden darkness swallowing him whole. When he emerged into the light at the chicane, he saw them—two cars ahead on the track. Steiner’s silver-black Aethel was sliding through the final corner, its rear end twitching, and behind it a Haas-style white car that belonged to one of the backmarkers.

Perfect. A tow.

Jack hooked onto the backmarker’s slipstream as they crossed the line to start the flying lap. The speed came up fast, the car hooking into the first corner with more grip than he’d dared hope. He felt the rear settle, the suspension working through the bumps, and he carved through Portier, then the tunnel again—flat out now, his foot pinned to the floor, the engine screaming at 12,000 RPM as the walls blurred past.

The backmarker ahead was lifting off early into the chicane. Jack held his line, braked late, and the car turned in like a race car should. He crossed the line: 1:11.94—good enough for third, provisional. Steiner was a tenth ahead in second.

“Solid banker, Jack. P3. We’re resetting now.”

He brought the car in, and the mechanics swarmed it, changing tyres again. Jack climbed out for the brief lull, drinking water, feeling his heart hammer. He caught Rinaldi’s eye across the garage—the mechanic was changing the front right, his face a mask of concentration. Jack forced himself to look away.

“He’s still a tenth off Viktor,” Alain said, walking up beside him, his voice low. The team principal’s face was pinched white beneath the garage lights, his eyes darting between the timing screens and the pit wall. “That’s too close for comfort.”

“It’s qualifying,” Jack said. “We have one more run. I’m going for it.”

Alain grabbed his wrist. “Don’t. P3 is a strong result. Viktor will push on his second run, and if you crash trying to beat him, we have no car for the race.”

Jack pulled his arm free. “I’m not here for P3.”

The session resumed. Jack climbed back into the spare car, the cockpit still warm from his previous run. The tyres were new, a fresh set of softs, the red ring crisp on the sidewalls. He watched the mechanics give them one last press with a warm blanket. Everything looked right.

On his second run, the track was at its best. He crossed the line just ahead of Steiner’s car, which had come out of the pits for a tow. Jack ducked into its wake through the first sector, the Aethel’s rear wing blocking the air, giving him the drag reduction he needed up the hill. He pulled out at the S-bends to make his own line through Casino, and that’s when Steiner saw him.

The Aethel weaved slightly, trying to shake him off. Jack’s car moved with it, holding in the slipstream. They raced through the tunnel side by side—dangerous, stupid, glorious. Jack’s heart hammered as the walls closed in at 280 km/h. He could see Steiner’s helmet turn in his mirrors, and for a moment, their eyes met through the glass.

Then the tunnel ended. Jack braked a fraction later into the chicane, felt the rear step out, caught it with a flick of steering—and powered through. He heard the pit wall shout his sector times through the earpiece: purple. Purple. Purple.

He crossed the line.

“P2, Jack. P2. You’ve slotted ahead of Steiner.”

The crew screamed in the garage, but Jack didn’t feel it. He was already slowing, the car rolling through the pack, and as he rounded the final corner, he saw Steiner’s car parked in the escape road by the pit entry. The Aethel was stopped, smoke still curling off its brake discs, and Viktor pulled off his helmet, hurling it to the asphalt.

The timing screens showed Steiner’s lap: 1:11.93. Jack had done 1:11.68.

In the pits, Jack climbed out of the car, pulling off his own helmet. The crowd roared from the grandstands above, but the noise was distant. Alain was waiting for him, a thin smile stretched over his face—nervous, Jack thought, more than triumphant.

“Good lap,” Alain said. “But you need to watch yourself tomorrow. Steiner isn’t going to forget that.”

“He can be angry all he wants,” Jack said. “I’m ahead of him.”

“He won’t be angry,” said a voice from behind. Jack turned to see Viktor Steiner walking through the pit lane toward them, still in his fireproof undersuit, his pale face glistening with sweat. He stopped a meter away, close enough that Jack could smell the ozone and rubber on his skin.

“I don’t get angry at drivers who aren’t worth my time,” Steiner said. He looked Jack up and down, a small, cold smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “But you, Turner—you’ve just made this weekend very personal.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Jack said.

“No,” Steiner said. “You should be.” He turned and walked away without another word, his posture upright and calm—too calm. Jack watched him go into the Aethel garage, surrounded by his engineers like a king returning to court.

In his own garage, Jack caught Valentina looking at him with a peculiar intensity. She stepped forward, lowering her voice.

“Jack, the race strategist wants to see you in the briefing room inside twenty minutes. He’s got instructions.”

Jack frowned. “What kind of instructions?”

“Race start,” Valentina said. “He’s setting the plan early.”

The briefing room was bare—a table, a screen, three chairs. Giancarlo Morini, Fenice’s race strategist, was already there, a thin man with rimless glasses and a clipboard full of charts. He didn’t stand when Jack entered.

“Jack,” Morini said. “Sit.”

Jack sat. “I’m listening.”

Morini’s finger traced a line on his clipboard. “We’ve analyzed the data. Your pace here is strong—stronger than we expected. Viktor’s Aethel has a tenth on us in pure race trim, but you can hold him off at the start if you get the line through Sainte Dévote.”

“Then that’s what I’ll do.”

“No.” Morini set the clipboard down. “You’ll hold position. Alonso is starting third behind you, and he’s not a threat. Viktor will try to pass you in the early laps, and you’re instructed to let him through cleanly, then maintain the gap. Do not engage in wheel-to-wheel racing.”

Jack stared at him. “You’re telling me to hand him the lead of my home race?”

“I’m telling you to protect the constructor points,” Morini said. “We need both cars to finish. Fenice’s commercial partners have invested heavily in this race, and a collision between our car and Aethel’s would be catastrophic for that investment. You’ll hold position.”

The room went cold. Jack understood now—the weight of it settling in his chest like a stone. Alain had called it *nervous*. Morini was the one who held the plan. And the plan wasn’t to win. The plan was to keep the machine churning the way Rivière Partners wanted it to—a comfortable, safe, profitable result. No controversy. No investigation. Just another podium for the sponsors.

“I won’t do it,” Jack said.

Morini smiled thinly. “It’s not a request.”

“And if I overtake him anyway?”

“Then you’ll find yourself in a car that develops mechanical problems on lap twenty.” Morini’s voice was calm, almost gentle. “And you’ll be out of the seat by Austria. Think carefully, Turner. You’re a good driver. Don’t be a dead one.”

Jack stood up. His hands were shaking—from the adrenaline of qualifying or the fury in his throat, he couldn’t tell.

“You’re using me,” he said.

“We’re all being used,” Morini said. “Some of us are smart enough to take advantage of it.”

Jack walked out without another word. The sounds of the paddock washed over him—cameras clicking, radios chattering, the distant roar of other teams celebrating their fortunes. He pulled out his phone and typed a message to Sophie: *Qualified P2. They want me to throw the race. I have 24 hours.*

The reply came quickly: *Then don’t wait 24 hours. Whatever you’re going to do. Do it tomorrow.*