Read Chapter 25: Mole Exposed

The knock came at 06:47, hard and fast against Elise’s hotel room door. She’d been awake since four, staring at the ceiling, the dossier she’d assembled on the minibar table glowing faintly in the pre-dawn light from her laptop screen.

She opened the door to Julien, already dressed, his jaw set.

“They picked him up,” he said. “Twenty minutes ago. FIA enforcement took him from the motorhome at the track before sunrise.”

Elise let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Reynaud.”

Julien nodded. “Security footage from his office. The radio traffic between his phone and the supplier’s. The bank transfers from the shell company. All of it matches what you gave them.” He paused, studying her face. “You look like you could sleep for a week.”

“I’ll sleep when Monaco’s behind us.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, his presence filling the small space. “Word’s spreading through the paddock. The team’s in chaos. No one knows who to report to, which systems to trust, whether the cars are even safe to run.”

“They are. I verified every component myself.” She gestured to the laptop. “The engine they fitted on Thursday passed all stress tests. The brakes were sourced from a secondary supplier we haven’t used in three years. I ran the compound analysis twice.”

“I know. I told the crew chief that already.” Julien ran a hand through his hair, and for a moment he looked less like a champion driver and more like the man she’d seen cracking under the pressure of the season’s early failures. “Elise, the team principal is in FIA custody. The sponsors are pulling their reps out of the paddock. PR is drafting statements but they don’t know what to say because they don’t know the full extent of what Reynaud was doing. There’s a power vacuum.”

“There’s an ownership group,” Elise corrected. “They’ll appoint a caretaker.”

“From where?” Julien sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on his knees. “The technical director quit in January. The race director is loyal to Reynaud and is already lawyering up. Half the senior engineers were hired by Reynaud, and the other half are terrified they’re complicit by proximity.”

Elise’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it: an email from the ownership group’s legal counsel, requesting a call within the hour.

“They’re moving fast,” she murmured.

“What do they want?”

“Probably to know what I did with their team principal.” She picked up the phone, ready to dial. “Testimony. Documentation. They’ll want my head, or they’ll want my help.”

“And which is it going to be?”

She didn’t have an answer.

The video call connected at seven. The ownership group’s representative was a woman in her sixties named Ingrid Foss, whose face Elise recognized from the financial pages rather than the paddock. Behind her, two men in suits sat in what looked like a corporate boardroom.

“Ms. Moreau,” Foss said, her tone clipped, Nordic, precise. “You understand the grave position you’ve placed this organization in.”

“I understand the position Reynaud placed it in,” Elise replied. “My role was to stop him.”

“By going to the FIA without our knowledge.”

“I had no assurances the team’s leadership wasn’t involved. Given the circumstances, I judged that external action was the only reliable path.” Elise kept her voice level. “I understand if you disagree with the method. The evidence is available for your review. The sabotage campaign was extensive. It endangered drivers. It compromised race outcomes. Reynaud facilitated it for personal financial gain through the shell company connections.”

Foss exchanged a glance with one of the men. Then: “We’ve reviewed the evidence. The FIA forwarded their file at six this morning.”

Elise waited.

“This team has been humiliated,” Foss continued. “Our sponsors are rattled. Our reputation is in tatters. We need stability, and quickly. The Monaco Grand Prix is in three days.”

“I’m aware.”

“We’re aware that you’re aware.” A thin smile crossed Foss’s face. “We’ve also reviewed your personnel file. Your race engineering record. Your handling of the car after the sabotage was discovered. Your relationship with our lead driver.”

Elise’s heart tightened. “My relationship is professional.”

“So Julien Marchand’s public defense of you was purely professional? His willingness to take a grid penalty, to alter his race strategy, to absorb media criticism—all professional?”

“Yes.”

Foss’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “Good. That’s exactly what we need to hear.”

She leaned forward. “Effective immediately, you are appointed interim head of engineering. Full authority to restructure the department. Hiring, firing, budget allocation. You report directly to the ownership group, not through any interim principal we nominate. Do you accept?”

Elise’s mouth went dry. “I—there are qualified candidates within the team who—“

“Are tainted by association with Reynaud’s tenure. You are the only senior staff member whose history is clean. Whose loyalty is proven. Whose technical competence is beyond question.” Foss paused. “You built this car, Ms. Moreau. You know its weaknesses, its strengths, its secrets. We need you to make it fast enough to win at Monaco, and we need you to do it without Reynaud’s shadow hanging over every decision.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then we appoint someone from outside, which means months of rebuilding, and this team likely loses its constructor’s standing by season’s end. Along with its lead driver, whose contract contains a performance clause tied directly to your continued employment.”

Elise’s gaze flicked to Julien, who was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read—careful, hopeful, guarded.

“The clause was written to protect him from interference,” Elise said slowly. “Not to install me.”

“Nevertheless, it exists. Mr. Marchand’s manager confirmed that if you are not part of the engineering leadership, he will exercise his option to terminate at year’s end. The ownership group considers that unacceptable.” Foss’s voice softened. “We want to win, Ms. Moreau. And winning requires the two of you.”

Elise looked at Julien again. He gave her a small nod, barely perceptible.

“I’ll accept,” she said. “But I have conditions.”

“Name them.”

“The department is restructured along my lines, not the ownership group’s. I want forensics on every component of both cars, and I want the findings made public. And I want Reynaud’s name kept out of our internal communications until the FIA completes its prosecution, so we don’t prejudice the case.”

“Agreed. Anything else?”

Elise thought for a moment. “I want to tell the team myself. In person, before any official statement. They need to hear it from me, not from a press release.”

Foss considered this. “You have until noon. Our lawyers will draft the interim agreement, and you’ll sign it before your team briefing.”

“Understood.”

“Congratulations, Ms. Moreau. Don’t make us regret this.” Foss ended the call.

The room fell silent. Elise’s hands were trembling slightly, and she pressed them flat against the table to steady herself. Julien rose from the bed, crossed to her in three strides, and stopped a foot away.

“Interim head of engineering,” he said softly. “That’s got a ring to it.”

“It’s a poison pill, Julien. If we lose at Monaco, they’ll pin it on me. If we win, they’ll call it a miracle and then find a permanent replacement who’s more manageable.” She looked at him. “You knew about that clause in your contract.”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it?”

“Would it have changed anything?”

Elise opened her mouth, then closed it. He had her there. She would have fought the appointment regardless, but knowing he’d backed her before she ever asked—that made it feel different. Real.

“I’m not your project, Julien,” she said, quieter. “I’m not something you need to save.”

“I know.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne, sawdust and bergamot. “I’m not trying to save you. I’m trying to make sure you don’t leave me behind when you go.”

“Go where?”

“Wherever you go when you win this. Championship teams will be calling. You’ll have your pick of seats.”

Elise shook her head. “I’m not leaving this team. Not while—” She stopped.

“Not while what?”

“Not while we have something unfinished,” she said, knowing it was a dodge.

Julien held her gaze for a long moment, something unspoken passing between them. Then he nodded, reached out, and took her hand. His palm was warm, calloused from years of steering wheel work.

“Then we finish it together,” he said. “Monaco. The championship. Whatever comes after.”

“That’s not a professional arrangement.”

“No, it isn’t.”

She didn’t pull away. She didn’t want to.

At nine, the engineering team filed into the conference room. Forty-two people, from data analysts to mechanics, the faces Elise had worked with for months under Reynaud’s shadow. They were subdued, anxious, checking each other’s expressions for clues.

Elise stood at the head of the table, the interim agreement she’d signed tucked into her jacket pocket, her notes from Foss’s call still open on her phone. Julien stood beside her, arms crossed, a silent anchor.

“You know why we’re here,” she began. “Reynaud is in custody. The FIA has charged him with orchestrating sabotage against this team’s vehicles. He’s also implicated in the compound failure that injured Julien in practice last week, and in the broader campaign that’s haunted our season.”

A murmur rippled through the room.

“I’ve been appointed interim head of engineering, effective immediately. I’m not going to pretend I have all the answers. I don’t. What I have is a clear picture of what was happening under our noses, and a commitment to making sure it never happens again.”

She paused, letting the words land.

“Every component of both cars will be forensically examined. Every supplier relationship will be audited. Anyone who was aware of Reynaud’s activities, who participated in them, or who covered for them, will be dealt with individually. That process starts today.”

“And the race?” someone asked from the back. “Monaco’s in three days.”

“The race proceeds as planned. The cars are cleared for competition. I’ve personally verified the integrity of every critical system.” She glanced at Julien. “We’re going to run the strategy we’d planned—the one designed for the compound failure risk. We’re going to be conservative in practice, aggressive in qualifying, and we’re going to give ourselves a fighting chance on Sunday.”

Julien stepped forward. “I want you all to hear this from me directly. I back Elise fully. I back her appointment. I back her leadership. There is no one in this sport I trust more with my car, my safety, or my career.” He looked around the room, his gaze steady. “We’ve been through hell this season. But we’re still standing. And we’re still in this fight. That’s because of her.”

A long silence. Then, slowly, the head mechanic nodded. A data analyst followed. Someone in the front row clapped once, then another, and another, until the room filled with applause.

Elise stood there, Julien’s hand on her shoulder, the team’s approval washing over her, and allowed herself a moment of something she hadn’t felt in months.

Hope.