Chapter Seventeen.

Race Day

Two malicious, golden eyes glint with victory as a wide, cackling mouth stretches in an arch underneath them. A tangle of brown locks shake out as a fine haze fills the air. The m.u.f.fled sound of a thousand people cheering fills the dead s.p.a.ce around us as I look on, devastated. A wily, grinning man raises his arms in triumph as his two opponents, fallen but so much more deserving, let their heads fall into their hands.

"This isn't right!" I hear myself shouting. My voice is subsumed by the waves of noise spilling out from the crowd. "He's lying! He's lying to you all!"

Those gleaming eyes swing toward me like spotlights, and I feel myself rooted to the spot. That gaping mouth begins to laugh, and the laughter itself is a dark cloud that rushes toward me, as if it would swallow me whole. I leap out of the way and find myself falling, faster and faster, as the ground rushes up to meet me...

"No!" I scream, my body jerking me awake.

I sit up and look around wildly. Here I am in Harrison's hotel room, safe and sound. My chest is heaving as I struggle for breath, and my body is trembling uncontrollably.

"I was just a dream," I mutter to myself, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, "Just a bad dream, Siena."

But it didn't feel like a dream. The nightmare scene was so real. The Dallas Grand Prix had already been won, and Rafael Marques had beaten both Harrison and Enzo. But why did he appear so much larger than life, so gruesome in my nightmare?

The gears and works of my mind begin to whir as I remember something I've heard in many a cla.s.sroom. If you fall asleep thinking about a problem, your mind will often supply you with an answer come morning. I know that the only thing on my mind as I fell asleep last night was who could be to blame for instilling so much fear and anxiety into us all. Who could be to blame for all the bad that's befallen the F1 drivers and teammates this year?

As I ponder the question now, the only face that comes to mind is that of Rafael Marques. Of all the drivers in F1, he's the only one whose fortunes haven't taken a nose dive. If anything, he's benefitted from the tragedies, big and small, that have taken hold of this world championship.

Marques never would have stood a chance of doing well in the standings if the really talented drivers involved hadn't become distracted. If everything had gone accordingly, the championship would have been a clash of the t.i.tans- Enzo and Maxwell Naughton going head to head. But from the start, this season has just been a bit...off.

Once Harrison entered the running, everything changed. Not only was he far better than anyone antic.i.p.ated, he also changed the way all the other drivers raced, especially Enzo. Harrison's presence distracted Enzo from the beginning, making him far more focused on beating the British star than on winning. Rostov and Landers crept up in the rankings, and Marques with them. But because Marques was such an unknown going into this tournament, no one even noticed his ascent until Landers and Rostov were out of the picture. And by then, with injuries and suspensions, Harrison and Enzo were relegated to Marques' level.

Everything that's happened-from Naughton's wreck, to Harrison's ascent, to the rumors about me, to Landers' and Rostov's near deadly crash-has all been to Marques' advantage. Part of me has always been aware of this, but I've been thinking of it as an unfortunate fact-that this slimy a.s.shole manages to gain while so many more worthy men lose. But what if Marques' success isn't a coincidental byproduct of all this chaos. What if it was the intended goal all along? The 2013 world champion stands to win a $25 million dollar purse; people have done much worse for much less.

"Harrison!" I cry, jumping up from the bed, "Harrison? Where are you?"

I tear around the hotel room, but he's nowhere to be found. My eyes fall upon the bedside alarm clock-it's hours later than I meant to rise. The Grand Prix will start within the hour. There's a hastily scribbled note on the bedside table, written in Harrison's hand. I s.n.a.t.c.h up the sc.r.a.p of paper and read.

"Thought you might want to catch some z's. Maybe you'll sleep through the race altogether. I know how you've been worried about it happening without you. Here's hoping. I love you, Harrison."

"d.a.m.n," I mutter, letting the note fall from my hands. I have to tell him about my notion that Marques might have a hand in the mayhem that's plagued this tournament. But now that he's gone to the track, I have no way of reaching him. Neither he nor Enzo will have their cell phones on, that's for sure. And I'm not allowed to show my face at the track, Team Ferrelli has forbidden it. How am I going to tell Harrison, warn him about what might happen if he tries to give Marques a run for his money?

I begin to pace hastily around the room. In my distracted state, I manage to trip at once, stubbing my toe on something hard and unforgiving. Uttering a curse under my breath, I glance down and see that I've stumbled into one of Harrison's suitcases. I glare at the spilled contents-clothes, hats, a belt or two.

But then it occurs to me.

What if I could show up at the track without anyone noticing? What if I could be at the Grand Prix without showing my face at all? I kneel down among the scattered jeans and tee shirts, my mind whirring. f.u.c.k it.

Without pausing to think, I grab my things and run to my hotel room. I rush to my closet and seize up the smallest articles of clothing I can find and pull them onto my body, white linen pants and a b.u.t.ton down. I wrap my hair in a scarf and find a cute sun hat to hide my dark brown locks, and I put on the biggest pair of sungla.s.ses I own to obscure my big brown eyes. I grab the gaudiest golden watch and bangles from my suitcase to complete the look.

I give myself a once over in the bathroom mirror and can't help but laugh, astonished by the success of my impromptu disguise. No one would ever expect me to go out in public looking so ridiculous. I've got a Grand Prix to get to. I shove the essentials into my pockets-phone, wallet, keys-and slip out of my hotel room. Thank G.o.d there's no one around to see me as I slip out of the hotel and grab the first cab that's headed for the race track.

Before the track is even in sight, I can feel the energy rippling from it vibrating in the hot Dallas air. The entire city is buzzing with excitement as the final race of the season draws ever-nearer. Thousands upon thousands of fans mill about the course as we pull up. I catapult out of the cab, throwing far too much money at the driver, and weave through the roiling crowd as quickly as I can. Amid the pre-race chaos, the security guards are too distracted to check and see if my F1 pa.s.s picture matches the person in front of them. I'm waved into the teams-only portion of the course in no time.

If the energy among the crowd was chaotic, it's absolutely electric among the teams themselves. All around me, drivers and their crews prepare for the coming race. Shouting voices and charging feet surge all around me as I tear through the teeming ma.s.ses. I have to find Harrison and Enzo, and tell them what I suspect. If the people trying to clear the path for Marques' victory have something diabolical planned for today's race, I have to make sure that my boys are in the know.

In my haste, I didn't bother getting a lay of the land before I arrived here. It occurs to me, as I stop to catch my breath, that I have no idea where the Ferrelli and McClain camps are within this labyrinth. The race announcer's voice crackles over the PA system, telling us all that there are only fifteen minutes left until race time. My heart begins to sink-am I too late?

I'm just about to give in to failure when I realize where it is that my feet have come to a stop. Looking up, I find myself surrounded by pit crew members wearing the Spanish team's colors. The trailer standing right beside me is none other than Rafael Marques'.

Terror and excitement scorch along my nerves as I march toward Marques' trailer. This isn't at all what I'd planned to do, but I can't stop myself. I'm going to march into that trailer and give Marques a piece of my mind. I'm going to tell him what I suspect, that I know he's got something to do with everything that's happened to me, my friends, and my family. What I'm going to do once I've dropped my little truth bomb, I still don't know. I'll just have to figure this one out as I go.

I storm up the trailer steps, adrenaline searing through my every vein. What I'm about to do is against so many rules and protocols that I'd never be able to count them, but I just can't bring myself to give a s.h.i.t. I reach for the door handle, prepared to wrench it open, but I only grab air as it swings wide before me.

"You?" I breathe, staggering over the threshold of the trailer.

The sneering punk kid who ratted me and Harrison out to the world stares at me uncomprehendingly. I take in the sight of him, standing in Marques' trailer as the driver himself lounges within.

"I'm sorry," the kid scoffs, "Who the h.e.l.l are you?"

With gritted teeth, I tear the sungla.s.ses off my face and tug the hat and scarf from my head, letting my curls loose. Recognition washes over the faces of the men before me, and Rafael Marques leaps to his feet.

"What the f.u.c.k are you doing here?" he demands.

"What is he doing here?" I counter, nodding at the kid.

"He's...That's..." Marques sputters.

"I'm out of here," the kid mutters, eyes wide with fear. He tries to scurry around me, but I step firmly in his path.

"If you tell me the truth, I won't bring you down with this a.s.shole," I tell him, "Is Marques the one paying you?"

"You're d.a.m.n right he is," the kid spouts.

"You idiot," Marques hisses, "What are you doing?"

"Getting out while the getting's good, boss," the boy quips, shooting Marques a smile. "You should know better than to trust a blackmailing stalker, dude."

The little paparazzo scurries out of the trailer, and I slam the door behind him, burying my hands deep in my pockets. I turn my furious gaze on Marques, only to find him sneering back at me, all panic gone from his expression. My fingers brush against my phone, hastily pressing a few choice b.u.t.tons, but I keep my eyes trained on the driver before me.

"It's been you this whole time, hasn't it?" I ask him point blank.

"Guilty," he says, shrugging his shoulders, "Can't blame a guy for doing his best."

"Too bad your best would never be good enough," I shoot back, "You knew you could never beat Enzo, so you fixed the whole season. "

"I guess you could say that," Marques sighs. "My team wouldn't take the initiative to make sure I succeeded, so I had to act on my own. With a few gifted a.s.sistants, it was far easier than you might expect."

"It goes all the way back to the beginning, doesn't it?" I ask, "All the way back to Maxwell Naughton?"

"Right-o," Marques chirps, "That was supposed to be the end of it, actually. I figured McClain would have some sad little backup driver come in, and I'd sail into second place, easy. But then, of course, they rolled out Davies instead."

"And you saw that he was far too talented for you to ever touch," I sneer.

"It was a dirty trick, bringing him in," Marques fumes, "But lucky for me, it was a trick that ended up working in my favor, once you spread your legs for the guy."

I swallow down my ire and press on. "You sent your punk to take pictures of us. You threatened us. You showed Enzo those pictures right before the Moscow Grand Prix so that he'd lose his head and go after Harrison."

"Yep," Marques smiles.

"And when you still didn't finish them off like you meant to, you exposed us to the public. Me and Harrison, my dad, all of us. Just so that you could sneak into the top five like a snake in the gra.s.s."

"I didn't sneak anywhere," he spits, "I just happen to play dirtier than the rest of these morons. A man who is willing to do anything in the name of ambition deserves what he gets."

"I couldn't agree more," I tell him. "but why couldn't you stop there? Wasn't ruining me and Harrison enough? Why did you have to go after Landers and Rostov?"

"That's the thing," Marques tells me, taking a step forward, "They were just a bonus. My photographer, as it turns out, is also quite the talented vandal. All he had to do was flash his fake press badge to walk around as he pleased. Your brother and lover boy's cars were surprisingly easy to tamper with. I only meant to slow them down, but that wreck that Rostov and Landers got into? Absolutely brilliant."

"Just collateral damage for you, huh?" I say, fighting to speak around the lump in my throat, "Never mind that they're both good men, better than you'll ever be."

"Aww, are you gonna shed a tear?" Marques says, sneering at me, "Suck it up, babe. You're in the big leagues, here. Only the strong survive."

"Or the shameless, in your case," I spit, "You were willing to tamper with your own car to make it look like-why are you laughing?"

"Because you're just so naive!" Marques cackles, clutching his stomach, "I never messed with my car, you dumb little girl. I just paid off some pit guys to say it had been messed with. All so that I could pin the blame on you, obviously."

"You set me up in the bar," I seethe.

"Me and my lovely camera woman, yes," Marques smiles, "And it did the trick, too! Got you in trouble with all the big, scary men. Is that why you're wearing that ridiculous little getup? Don't want to get in trouble, little one? That's just adorable. Don't worry, I won't even bother ratting you out. I've got more important things to do. Like winning this championship, for one. Just think-when we started in Barcelona, I was a n.o.body. But thanks to you and your hapless friends, I'm about to become a multi-millionaire and a household name."

"You haven't won yet, Marques," I whisper.

"No, you're right. I could use one of those good luck kisses you're so fond of giving your brother," he says, closing the s.p.a.ce between us.

I back away from him, further into the trailer. I loose my hands from my pockets, balling them into fists. Marques gives a little laugh and strolls toward the door.

"Honestly, it's not even worth it," he sighs, "You'll be throwing yourself at my feet when I'm the world champion. Mark my words. Until then, babe."

He disappears through the trailer door, leaving me standing in the center of the room alone. My knees shake beneath me as I stare after him, amazed by his cavalier admission. Everything's gone so perfectly according to his plan that he can't imagine that anything could derail him now.

With trembling fingers, I reach into my pocket and pull out my iPhone. A little sound wave wiggles there on the screen, wavering with my every heavy breath. I press the red b.u.t.ton, stopping the recording and saving it to my phone. My entire conversation with Marques is captured there, in that most una.s.suming of devices.

"Gotcha, b.i.t.c.h," I grin, clutching the phone triumphantly in my fist.

Beyond the walls of the trailer, the announcer's voice rings out, heralding the start of the race. I rip open the trailer door just in time to watch the cars line up, their engines purring like big cats. There's Marques, sidling into his undeserving position at the head of the pack. Harrison is right beside him, followed by Enzo. The only thing I didn't manage to get out of Marques during our fateful little chat is what he has up his sleeve for this race. There's no way I can stop the Grand Prix from starting now.

As if cued by my frantic thoughts, the green flag comes soaring down. The fleet of F1 racers roars to life and takes off in a cloud of exhaust and ripping engines.

"No..." I groan, watching helplessly as the cars take off along the track, "No, no, no!"

I tear out of Marques' camp and go in search of Ferrelli's. The chaotic crowd all but swallows me up as I search, and a quarter of the race has already been run by the time I finally find my emerald-clad teammates.

"Siena, there you are!"

"Where have you been, girl?"

I brush past familiar faces and race toward the pit. I skid to a stop among the clanging, clamoring noise of the pit. Gus is commanding his troops as I rush up to him, arms waving. He takes one look at me and loses his cool.

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" he shouts, "I told you-"

"I know, I know!" I cry, "But Gus-"

"You wanna get yourself banned from the team? Break your father's heart?"

"I need you to call the ownership and-"

"I need you to get out of the pit," Gus says firmly. He turns away, completely icing me out. Furious, I storm away, my brain scrambling to find another way.

My phone vibrates against my palm, and I glance down to see that Bex has texted me, asking if I'm holding up OK.

"Come to the Ferrelli trailer," I text her, "Hurry."

In no time flat, Bex, Charlie and I are huddled together in Enzo's trailer.

"I thought you weren't allowed to be here?" Charlie says anxiously.

"Things have changed," I tell him, producing my phone.

I let Marques' admission ring through the trailer, watching as Bex and Charlie's jaws drop further and further.

"That son of a b.i.t.c.h," Charlie mutters. "How c.o.c.ky he is to just freely admit all that s.h.i.t!"

"Oh, he's going down," I tell him, my thumbs flying across the screen of my phone.

Bex and Charlie's phones both buzz as they receive the message I've sent them. "You each have a copy of this conversation now. If the Ferrelli owners won't hear me, if we can't go to the race authorities, there's still one place we can turn. The internet."

As the second two quarters of the race go by, the three of us get to work. We email, text and post our recording everywhere we can think of. But I won't stop at three vigilantes. I call in backup. With a couple of well-placed texts, I get Shelby and Sara to come running. After hearing Marques talk about their driver, they're more than happy to help. In no time, Enzo's trailer is the epicenter of our effort to bring Marques down before something goes terribly wrong on the track.

"Pull up the race on the TV," I command.

Charlie does so, and the race springs up before us. Marques is in second place, right behind Harrison. Enzo lingers just behind, and the three race along in a tight pack. So far, no foul play that I can see. But who knows how long that will hold out.

"We just need one website to bite," I mutter, "Just one, and he's-"