Read Chapter 23: The Journalist's Trap

The coffee in Dana Calloway’s room was stale. She didn’t offer Jack any. She stood by the window of the Hôtel de Paris suite, phone in one hand, the USB drive in the other, turning it over like a casino chip she was deciding whether to cash.

“You’re sure this is everything?” she said without turning around.

“It’s what Luca died for,” Jack said. “Engineering data, the bleed valve modifications, the radio transcripts you can’t get anywhere else. The whole rotten architecture of it.”

She finally looked at him. “Architecture. That’s a pretty word for murder.”

“You’re the one with the pulitzer vocabulary.”

Calloway smiled—thin, practiced. “I’m the one with the platform, Jack. Don’t confuse the two.” She pocketed the USB. “Give me four hours. I’ll put it on the site tonight. We go live before the podium ceremony, while the champagne’s still warm and the world’s still watching Monaco.”

Jack hesitated. The gag order sat in his pocket like a cold stone. “My name on it?”

“Your name’s already on it. That fire on lap twelve was broadcast to two hundred million people. The question isn’t whether you’re named—it’s how.” She crossed to the minibar, poured a heavy whisky, and drank half of it standing. “You look like a man who’s about to ask me if we can ‘soften the blow.’ We can’t. You signed their paper. The only way you survive is by making your story louder than their lawyers.”

“And what’s your angle?”

“Truth.” She said it flat, no irony. “It’s the last thing I sell that’s actually mine.”

Jack didn’t believe her, but he was out of options. He left the hotel with the sun falling behind the cliffs, the Monaco skyline glittering like a rigged slot machine. He walked the harbor road, hood up, checking shadows. His phone buzzed as he rounded the casino corner.

It was a news alert.

Dana Calloway’s byline. Published nineteen minutes after he’d handed over the drive.

The headline hit him square in the chest.

**FENICE IN CRISIS: TURNER SUSPECTED OF SABOTAGING OWN CAR IN MONACO GRAND PRIX**

He read it standing still on the pavement, tourists parting around him like water around a wreck.

The article was meticulous—terrifyingly so. It cited the engineering data from the USB, the bleed valve alteration, the spare car’s fire. But the framing was inverted. It didn’t say Jack had discovered sabotage. It said Fenice had *initiated an internal investigation* after noticing anomalies, and that *sources close to the team* indicated Jack Turner had modified his own machinery to manufacture a scandal when his seat was threatened. The article quoted unnamed engineers. It quoted a “team representative.” It quoted the confidentiality agreement—leaked, somehow—painting Jack as a disgruntled driver who’d signed away his rights and then run to the press.

And it named Dana Calloway’s source as *“a whistleblower within the Turner camp.”*

That whistleblower was Jack.

He’d handed them the rope and they’d hung him with it.

His phone rang. Sophie.

“Jack. Tell me you didn’t—”

“I gave her everything. Every fucking file.”

“She buried you with it. Jack, the radio traffic—she edited the transcripts. She spliced your pre-race conversations with Rinaldi so it sounds like you were planning the bleed valve installation. The timestamps are altered. It’s beautiful work. Whoever did this knows the story they want to tell.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “She was bought.”

“Or she was never selling what you thought she was selling.”

A black sedan pulled to the curb beside him. The rear window rolled down. Alain Moreau’s face appeared, calm as a lake at dawn.

“Get in, Turner. We need to talk about your future.”

“My future’s in the toilet because of your people.”

Alain’s smile was gentle, almost paternal. “That’s what I want to discuss. The toilet, as you put it, has a very specific plumbing. And I’m the man who decides which way the water flows.”

Jack hung up on Sophie and stared at Alain. The journalist’s room, the careful timing of the article—it reeked of a setup that had been building for days. Philippe had known he’d go to Calloway. Hell, Philippe had probably *counted* on it. The confidentiality agreement wasn’t just legal armor. It was a leash that pointed Jack toward the one journalist whose grudge against Rivière made her predictable.

Vengeance could be guided.

Jack slid into the back seat. The door closed with a soft, expensive thud.

“You’re smarter than Luca,” Alain said. “That’s a shame. Luca only thought he knew what he was doing. You actually did—for about twelve hours.”

“Where’s Philippe?”

“Watching the replay. He enjoys a good overtake.” Alain handed Jack a tablet. On the screen, a live feed of the Fenice garage. Steiner stood at the pit wall, gesturing at a monitor. Mechanics milled around the spare car—the burned one, now draped in a thermal blanket like a body at a crime scene. “Your replacement is already signed. A kid from the academy. Fast, hungry, and—crucially—not interested in murder investigations.”

“You’re going to prison, Alain.”

“Maybe. But you’re going to *disgrace* first. Tonight, the narrative is that you sabotaged your own car to frame your team. Tomorrow, the FIA opens an inquiry. Your superlicense is suspended pending review. By the time the next race comes—if it comes—your name is mud in every paddock from Melbourne to São Paulo.” He tilted his head. “You have no team. No sponsor. No credibility. And the only journalist who could tell your side just sold you for a story she wanted more than the truth.”

Jack’s hands were shaking. He shoved them under his thighs.

“Why tell me this? Why not just let the article do the work?”

“Because Philippe wants you to *understand*. He values symmetry. You tried to tear down his house with Luca’s playbook, and you failed precisely because you used Luca’s playbook. He knew you’d find the SIM. He knew Sophie would crack the encryption. He *wanted* you to have the evidence—it made you predictable.” Alain’s voice was soft, almost kind. “The only unpredictable thing you did was the magnet on the floor pan. That was clever. That earned you this conversation instead of a shallow grave.”

The sedan pulled up outside Jack’s hotel. Alain reached across and opened the door.

“The care facility called, by the way. Your sister’s doing well. She asked about you. Lovely place, that.” He smiled. “It would be a shame if her insurance lapsed.”

Jack got out. His legs were unsteady. The sedan pulled away, taillights bleeding into the Monaco night.

He stood on the sidewalk, phone buzzing with notifications—his name trending, the article shared thousands of times, his career dying in public, frame by frame.

He walked into the lobby. The clerk handed him a keycard and a sealed envelope. No return address.

In his room, he tore it open. A single sheet of paper, typed. Three lines.

*You were set up. I know the whole story. Meet me on the roof. Come alone. —E*

Emile.

Alive.

Jack stared at the paper. The last man Marco had been looking for. The brother of the driver who’d been murdered for what he knew.

He looked out the window at the Monte Carlo skyline, the lights of the circuit still burning, the race long over, the champagne flowing for a cheat who’d won by killing.

His phone buzzed again. Another alert.

This one was from the Hôtel de Paris.

*A man was found deceased in the swimming pool area. Authorities are investigating. The victim has been identified as journalist Dana Calloway.*

Jack read it twice. Then he folded the note from Emile, slipped it into his pocket, and headed for the stairs.

The journalist was dead. The USB was gone. And the only man alive who could prove Jack’s innocence was waiting on the roof.

Which meant the trap had a second floor.