Declare (Declan Reede: The Untold Story #4) (30 page)

“I’m not talking about money.” I don’t know where the idea had come from, but it was snowballing. I could finally see an easy way to be rid of Hunter for good, and all I had to do was what I was planning on doing anyway. “If I crash out of the race, I’ll quit Sinclair Racing, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

Hunter’s mouth lifted into a sick smile. He took far too much enjoyment out of the idea, which made me more concerned that I was right in my thinking—he wanted to try to force me to crash, just like he had done to Morgan.

“And if you don’t?” Danny asked, egging me on.

“I don’t know,” I answered, carefully measuring my words. “What’s it worth to you, Hunter?”

He shook his head. “I’m not betting on the race.”

I could tell he wanted to, but perhaps he didn’t want to play his hand just yet. Not in front of Danny.

“Aw, come on, Hunt,” I said his name in such a way that it rhymed with the word I really wanted to call him. “It’s your chance to get rid of me.” I winked at him.

There was a crowd gathering around us. I could see both my and Hunter’s crews lining up to watch our exchange. I knew that if we made the bet—which technically had no legal standing—the loser wouldn’t be able to welch without facing some serious repercussions and embarrassment around the company. “Or do you want to admit that you know I’m good enough to get around every single lap without incident.”

“Fine. If you actually manage to finish the race, then I’ll leave Sinclair Racing.”

“Looks like we have something extra to race for,” Danny said, meeting my eye and letting me know that he meant something extra for
me
to race for.

If everything went to plan, I was going to be back on the Sinclair Racing team as a ProV8 driver, and Hunter would be gone.

For good.

SITTING ON the grid felt eerily similar to the last start I’d had in a V8; except instead of being in pole position, I had ten cars lined up ahead of me. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to get centred in the last few moments before it was time to go.

My team had done everything possible to get the car to where it needed to be. The car was running the best times we could expect. Now, it would all come down to strategy, pit stops, and driving, and there was only one of those things I could control.

With my eyes closed, I reflected on that fateful race just one year ago and how different it was to the one I was about to run, even though it was the same event. Back then, I’d been avoiding Alyssa. I hadn’t known about Phoebe and Emmanuel. In fact, children had been so far from my agenda that they hadn’t even been a blip on my radar. I’d been miserable and haunted, and completely unable to admit it to anyone—including myself. When I raced back then, it was because it was the only thing I had left in my life, and I hadn’t even been able to do it properly.

Now, things were drastically different.

In comparison, I thought back to the little fist-bump Phoebe had given me moments before I climbed into the car. “Good luck, Daddy,” she’d practically shouted as I put my HANS device and helmet on. Then she’d blown me a kiss through the netting.

I closed my hand into a fist around the wheel, delighting in the feel of my wedding band pressing into my finger underneath the hard gloves, as it reminded me that I belonged to Alyssa.

Whatever else happened, I had my family now.

Racing wasn’t my whole life any longer; it was just something I enjoyed doing. Hopefully, I would be able to kick some arse and show everyone that I was no longer lost. I wasn’t just making a comeback, I was stronger than ever.

I opened my eyes and watched as the marshals cleared the track of all personnel.

“It’s nearly time,” Morgan told me through my headset. “You ready for this, squirt?”

I gave him the thumbs-up.

“The commentators want to talk to you if you’re willing
.
”

“That’s fine,” I murmured into my mic. I would have preferred some more alone time to meditate, but I no longer needed to cling to my old superstitions and rituals. I could forge new ones, like spending the night before every race with Alyssa, Phoebe’s little fist bumping against mine, or wearing the custom helmet Alyssa had designed for my birthday.

A moment after I had given my approval, I heard three voices discussing the start of the race and waited patiently to be addressed.

“It’s been quite a while since we’ve seen our guest on the ProV8 circuit. Let’s check in and see what he’s up to. We’ve got Declan Reede talking to us from the starting grid now. How are you feeling, Reede?”

“Pumped. I’m just really excited to get out there and do what I can.”

“You’ve had a very tumultuous year and haven’t been in a ProV8 since Bathurst last year. Not only that, but you’re racing as a privateer so are doing this all without the backing of the Sinclair Racing team. It seems there is a lot going against you. Do you think that’s going to hurt your chances today?”

Arseholes.
I should’ve anticipated the negativity in their question as soon as Morgan had said they wanted to talk to me. Way to kill the mojo. “All I can do is go out there and give it everything I have. I’ve spent a lot of time getting myself and my priorities sorted out so that I don’t have a repeat of last year.”

I heard them talking about my crash and listened to the crunching of metal in the archive footage—the fucking vultures must have had it keyed up, ready to go, long before they knew I would mention it.

“Well, everyone up here is excited to see you back. We’re behind you and Kent all the way. Best of luck to you, Reede
.
”

“Thanks.”

The three commentators left me there, because the race was close to starting. They began talking amongst themselves regarding the star power that Dane Kent brought to my car. I heard a few more sentences about how the fans were rooting for my comeback even though I’d had six months of crashes leading up to my disappearance from the ProV8 circuit.

The connection was finally cut, and I was left to the sounds emanating from the car.

I hoped I could live up to their expectations.

I hoped I could live up to
mine
.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: RACE YOU

I ALLOWED MYSELF one second of solitude and shut my eyes.

I pressed my foot against the pedal, pushing it deep onto the floor, and listened to the angry snarl that issued from the beast that encased me. The perfect roar of the engine blocked out all other sounds and left me momentarily in peace with my thoughts. Memories of Alyssa and Phoebe danced in my mind. Images of a new addition—a tiny bundle swaddled in yellow, lying lovingly in Alyssa’s arms—began to tempt me, fitting perfectly into our existing family.

My lips lifted at the picture my mind had offered up. A familiar sound broke me from my reverie and my eyes snapped open; it was time to go.

Ride on instinct.

Don’t think.

Don’t overthink.

You know what needs to be done. Just do it.

I can do this.

I
will
do this.

I only needed to make it through one thousand kilometres without crashing. It didn’t matter where I finished, just that I did.

Easy.

I got away cleanly from the starting line, and launched quickly to the left. As soon as I spotted the gap, I weaved my way through the cars to instantly claim two places. My radio blared to life almost immediately with Morgan congratulating me but warning of an incident in front of me. The first corner had claimed a casualty or two, just as it did every year, but there was no safety car, so whoever was involved must have been able to keep racing.

My ears pricked up when Morgan mentioned Hunter’s name. I wasn’t sure if he was the instigator or whether he’d just been caught up, but he’d brushed against the wall. I smiled as I imagined Danny cursing in his trailer.

It didn’t take me long to settle back into rhythm with the car. It was just like dancing with a long-lost lover. No matter how long I’d been away from the game, I would never forget how to bend the car to my control.

My fingers danced across the instruments. Up. Down. Clutch. Accelerator. Brake. One, two, three, four. Hard to the left. Up Mountain Straight. Hard to the right. Through the cutting and Reid Park. Past McPhillamy and into Skyline. The road fell away underneath me, and then I was floating through the S bends into the Dipper. A soft right, followed by a hard left around Forrest Elbow and then I was flying down Conrod Straight grinning like a lunatic.

I knew the racetrack like the back of my hand, and I was using every bit of that knowledge and my newfound confidence to my advantage.

I passed the start/finish line and it flashed away beneath me.

I smiled again, imagining Alyssa’s eyes resting on the car as I raced past the pits.

One lap down; 160 to go.

AT LAP thirty-six, a safety car was called so I took the opportunity to pit. After I’d climbed from the car and seen Dane away safely, I grabbed a bottle of water and settled in behind Morgan to watch the race on the monitors we had. There were less of them than in the Sinclair Racing camp, but it was enough for us. I could see what was happening around Dane, and I could see everyone else’s track position.

I watched as Dane used the space I’d earned to push the car faster and faster.

“You two make a great team,” Morgan murmured.

“Almost as good as you and I would have been if we could’ve raced together again.”

“Aww, you getting all mushy on me there, Deccy-boy?” Morgan made kissing noises until I punched his shoulder to shut him up. A few of the pit crew laughed until I shot them a warning glare.

“Just keep your eye on Kent and make sure he doesn’t crash that car, will you?” I chided Morgan, half-jokingly.

Alyssa, Phoebe, and Mum were hanging around behind the pits. I waved them in with a smile before downing another mouthful of water.

“You’re going really—” Alyssa started to talk, but I pressed my finger against her lips to silence her.

“Don’t jinx me,” I warned.

Alyssa laughed and kissed my fingertips lightly. She then clasped my hand, holding it tightly as she stood beside me while we watched Dane complete lap after lap.

He pitted once, and I focused on the crew as they flew around the car, changing tyres, brakes, and adding extra fuel. I saw Dane give me a thumbs-up through the window and stared after him with renewed excitement as he drove away to complete the last laps of his day. I was going to take the reins back for the last fifty or so laps.

He came in just before lap 110 to hand the car over to me. I couldn’t have been happier with the way things were going when he patted me on the back as we changed over.

“Go get ’em,” he whispered softly just before securing the netting and shutting the door.

I nodded as much as the HANS device on my neck would allow—which wasn’t much—and gave him the thumbs-up.

I would beat Hunter, or die trying.

I DRIFTED PAST McPhillamy and headed into Skyline.

For the first time in the race, I was closing in on Hunter. It had taken almost every one of the laps I’d had left. Everyone had made their final compulsory pit stops and all that remained was to battle out to the end.

I wasn’t sure what Hunter was doing, or why I was able to finally gain some ground on him, but I was catching glimpses of him more and more often. It was hard not to feel paranoid even though it was entirely possible he was running the car on a lower throttle for fuel conservation. That would have given me that little bit of extra power over him.

Maybe he’d pitted early, hoping for a safety car—a popular strategy at the Mount Panorama track. If that was the case, he was probably concerned about making it around the track for the remaining laps. More than one car had miscalculated their fuel load and ended up stopping midway through the final lap or two as the tank emptied.

I, on the other hand, still had plenty of fuel left and a relatively fresh set of tyres—perfect for an aggressive push. Dane and I had chosen to pit later in the windows, using the emptier tank and hot tyres to push ahead on the track. So far it seemed to have worked for us, because we were in the top five with no compulsory pit stop left. In the last leg, there had been a little bit of jostling between the cars ahead of us, and I kept swapping places with one of the Ford boys.

If I could position myself correctly through the S bends, I had a chance to get the jump on Hunter and overtake him down Conrod Straight. I wasn’t sure whether my car would really have enough in it to get around him, but based on Morgan’s voice squawking excitedly in my ear, it was possible.

My lap times were a good half a second ahead of Hunter’s.

My current push, if successful, would see me jump out of the fourth-fifth-sixth pack and into the second-third pack. I could almost taste a podium finish. We were barely ten laps away from the end. It could all change in an instant though; the track was notorious for last-lap breakdowns and accidents. The mountain was a cruel mistress. Regardless, I was ahead of where I’d finished the previous year.

I put my concerns about what
might
happen out of my mind and concentrated on what
was
happening. My breathing steadied as I pushed the car into a faster rhythm again. Up. Down. Clutch. Accelerator. Brake. One, two, three, four.

I saw Hunter’s brake lights ahead, and then I braked late before pushing hard to the left.

Up Mountain Straight. Hard to the right. Through the cutting. Reid Park. Past McPhillamy and into Skyline. Float through the S bends and the Dipper.

Within a few laps, Morgan informed me I’d cut Hunter’s lead from just over a second to mere fractions of one. He didn’t need to tell me though, because I could see how close Hunter was. I could feel the slipstream coming from his car embracing mine tightly and tucking me neatly behind his arse. If he was working the fuel conservation angle as I suspected, my position had to be driving him crazy.

We were coming up to the straight; there was just a soft right and then a hard left around Forrest Elbow first. Hunter slammed his brakes aggressively before the hard left, and I had to go wide to avoid running into the back of him. I twisted the car around as quickly as I could, feeling the tail get a little loose on the marbles, but I held control of it. I slammed down a gear and then pushed the accelerator hard, using my position to run door to door with Hunter down Conrod Straight.

As much as I could in the HANS, I turned my head to watch as I raced past him on the outside. I felt like waving, but realised that would have been a little bit too obnoxious; especially considering I was stealing third—his chance for a podium finish—from him.

My place on the outside put me in a perfect position for the soft right coming up, but I needed to ensure that I dominated the track to get ahead of him. And I needed to be sure that I had the line for the sharp left that followed or I’d lose the ground as quickly as I gained it. I pushed as hard as I could, but he lost speed rapidly as we approached the corners.

Without warning, he twisted his car toward me, and if I hadn’t been paying so much attention to him, I would’ve missed his next action. The thought that he’d misjudged the corner and understeered would’ve crossed my mind if it were any other driver, but I knew him too well. He’d glanced in the direction of my car before he’d flicked the wheel toward me once more.

I turned the car away from him as quickly as I could, sending it wide around the corner and flicking the tail out. It had the intended effect, removing myself from the danger of Hunter’s car, but also left me scrambling to get back onto a good line on the track.

Because he didn’t have my car to stop his turn as readily, Hunter speared off toward the wall before righting and slotting himself directly behind me. I felt his front bumper scrape my rear bar and winced, wondering momentarily how much that little scrape was going to cost me.

That thought speedily left my head when I realised I was in third place.

I
was in
third
.

After everything that had happened over the last year—the last four years, in fact—I couldn’t believe I was actually in third as a privateer. More than that, I felt completely in control behind the wheel for the first time ever. Even at the height of my career, I’d never felt so in command of every aspect of my life. I was on a high, and not even Hunter swerving from side to side in my rear-view mirror could bring me down.

Just as I was settling in to try to close in on second, my car lurched forward sickeningly. Hunter had leapt forward on the accelerator behind me, giving my arse a love tap. I cut across his nose, boxing him in before slamming on the gas and launching the car as hard as I could down the straight. Hunter came up the inside of me, edging further alongside my car with each second. He gave my car another love tap, this time on my rear quarter panel—at almost the exact spot he’d hit Morgan’s car—and the rear of my car spun loose, allowing him to gain even more ground on me.

I wrestled with the steering wheel and dropped off the accelerator to regain control. I reminded myself that I didn’t need to beat him to win the bet, just stay on the track. The old me—the hot-headed one who was angry with the world because of the stupid decisions I’d made—would have chased him down and gained ground on him, stupidly throwing away everything that mattered in the race just to settle my own personal vendetta against the fucker.

A part of me still desperately wanted to, but I didn’t.

Instead, I concentrated on solidifying my track position and ignored Hunter as best as I could, while still paying enough attention to be certain that I would be ready for any more smart-arse tricks he had up his sleeve.

I followed Hunter’s taillights closely through the rest of the lap, never letting him out of my sight and ensuring he didn’t gain even a fraction of a second advantage over me. In almost no time, we were back to the lead-in to Forrest Elbow. This time, I didn’t let Hunter get the jump on me. I slammed on the accelerator, took a risk, and snuck up the inside.

I had the racing line. According to CAMS guidelines, he should have relinquished the position to me, but instead he pushed his car heavily into mine. I had two choices, push forward and risk getting tangled up with his car because it was obvious he wasn’t playing by the rules anymore—if he ever really had—or back off, allow him to gain the position, and then lodge a complaint with the officials.

“Let him have it.” Morgan’s voice filled my ear just a fraction of a second after I’d tapped the brakes to get myself out of the fray.

A second later, Morgan informed me that Hunter had already been given the white-and-black flag for unsportsmanlike driving. I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face as I heard the news. Hunter was obviously being relayed the same information, because his car suddenly lurched to the side, allowing me plenty of room.

There was no doubt in my mind that he had something more up his sleeve though, so I was cautious as I crept up alongside him, ensuring I left plenty in reserve. I dialled up my throttle a little more to give myself that extra push I might need to get away.

Our cars were side by side, my door was level with his, when he once again tugged sharply on his steering wheel, but I anticipated his movement perfectly, slamming down a gear, ramming my foot flat to the floor, and accelerating away from him easily. Because of his speed and desperation, his move sent him straight into the barrier.