Quick (36 page)

‘Settle petal, where’s my gear?’

Dieter points at the change room to the left. ‘Be quick.’

Billy nods, enters the small room. A television is on in the corner and his race suit, boots and helmet are laid out on a table. He places his pistol beside them then strips out of his civvies.

There’s a knock at the door.

‘Yes?’

‘Thorne. You need to know what was discussed in the drivers’ briefing.’

Billy searches for a place to momentarily hide the pistol, finds a drawer in the table, places it inside, then pulls the door open. ‘Come in.’ Thorne enters and shuts the door behind him.

‘I’m in a bit of a rush so give me the cliff notes version.’ Billy grabs his race suit from the table and slides it on.

‘All right. It’s all pretty straight forward really —’

Metal glints and a thin wire loops over the Australian’s head.

Garotte.

‘Oh fuck!’ The weapon is held between Thorne’s fists and is yanked backwards. Billy throws up his right hand, gets it between the wire and his neck. The wire slams into his skin, cuts deep.

‘I can’t—imagine this—was part—of the—briefing . . .’ The Australian’s voice is just a croak as he reaches his left hand towards the drawer with the pistol in it. Thorne pulls hard on the wire and Billy can’t get to it. He tries another tack, swings his arm around, leans, leans some more, snags something with his outstretched fingers then swings it backwards hard and fast —

Thwump.
His race helmet slams into the side of Thorne’s head. The wire goes loose and the Brit slumps to the ground behind Billy, unconscious.

Sweet Jesus.

Gobsmacked, Billy catches his breath as a thousand thoughts swirl through his mind. Thorne is a member of the Three Champions.
Thorne
? Really?

So they know I’m a cop and want me dead, but how did they find out? Did one of them recognise me or did Franka give me up?

Billy bends, searches Thorne’s prone body, finds a phone in his trouser pocket. It’s an iPhone 5. ‘Excellent.’ He quickly swaps Thorne’s SIM for his own then reboots the machine. It takes a moment. ‘Come on, come on.’

The phone blinks to life and Billy sees there are ten text messages, all from Franka. He scrolls through them. The first five ask pretty much the same question:
R U OK?

Then they change in tone to the altogether more creepy:
Be careful, someone will try to kill you today.

Franka didn’t give him up. In fact she
warned
him of the imminent threat. He’s overjoyed about that, which goes to show how insane this situation is: he’s happy a girl he likes didn’t sell him out to the guy who just tried to garotte him.

Billy starts to text her back then thinks better of it. He doesn’t know who may see her phone so he can’t risk communicating with her.

He glances at his watch, realises he needs to get moving. He has a plan, the one the Frenchman thought was
speciale,
but to make it work he
must
start on the grid in fifth position, where he qualified. The trouble is he’s running out of time. If he tells anyone what happened with old Thorne-burger here he’ll need to answer a whole load of questions and won’t be in position before the formation lap begins. That’ll mean he’ll be required to start from the rear of the grid. So he slips the phone into one pocket, pushes his pistol into the other, slides in his earplugs, yanks on the fireproof balaclava, pulls on his gloves, which cover the cut on his right hand, yanks on his helmet, works the lock so the door can’t be accessed from the outside, draws it shut behind him and moves to the car. Billy just hopes no one discovers Thorne, or the Brit doesn’t come to, before he makes it out onto the track.

‘Good luck!’ Dieter claps Billy on the back then jauntily moves out of the garage and across to the pit wall from where he will watch the race. He’s so thrilled one of his cars is actually in the top ten with a chance of scoring points that he’s actually skipping, though Billy’s sure he wouldn’t be clapping him on the back or jauntily skipping anywhere if he knew the truth about Thorne or what Billy plans to do next.

The Australian squeezes into the Formula One car’s cockpit.
Good Lord it’s snug.
It surprises him each time. He straps on the safety harness as a mechanic behind the car spins the turbocharged V6 to life.

He looks up at the mechanic stationed at the mouth of the garage. The guy checks the lane for traffic then waves him out. The Australian eases the car into the pit lane, turns left, observes its eighty kilometre an hour speed limit until he reaches the end, then blasts onto the track. On the way around the lap he searches for the spot where he can make his plan work. It doesn’t take long to realise there’s only one point that is suitable.

He makes it to the grid with twelve seconds to spare, then follows the snake of cars around on the formation lap. It’s a slow parade as drivers warm the tyres by swerving back and forth across the track, then warm their brakes by lightly braking while accelerating. The snail-pace allows Billy the time to look out at all the people who line the track and watch from the balconies of the buildings that tower above.

What do the Three Champions have planned? When will it happen? Whatever ‘it’ is. The first lap? The final lap, with the leading car in sight of victory? Billy must presume that it will occur straight away, which means he must
lead
the first lap. Actually, he must lead long before that, which means, if there’s to be any chance of success, he must make up five places almost straight away on the single hardest Formula One track to pass on. It’s Bathurst all over again, except this time he’s not driving for his own glory but the lives of those spectators.

Line astern, the cars navigate the final turn and file onto the start-finish straight. Billy performs two burnouts to complete the heating cycle for his rear tyres and front brakes, then carefully slots his car into fifth position on the grid.

He looks at the two rows ahead of him, with two cars on each row, a shimmering heat haze radiating off their bodywork. Because of weight considerations F1 cars do not carry radiator fans so the engines need to move through air to stay cool, like sharks need to move through water to breathe. When the cars are stationary they overheat, while, ironically, the tyres and brakes cool, which is the opposite of what the driver needs.

Billy can see Vettel’s Red Bull on pole, Ricciardo in the sister car to his left. Behind them on the second row are the two scarlet Ferraris of Alonso and Räikkönen, then behind them Hamilton in his silver Mercedes and Billy. Those five are among the who’s who, the crème de la crème, the ducks nuts, if you will, of current F1 drivers—and he’s about to race them all and, hopefully, save their lives.

The Australian glances right, realises he’s close to the pit wall and can see straight down the right side of the track. When the lights go off he could he just floor it, make a quick right turn, skirt along the edge of the straight, pass the other cars on the outside and reach the first corner in the lead.

Would that work
?
Could it be that easy
?

Probably not. More than likely Alonso, who is directly in front, will cut across him and block his path. Now that Billy thinks about it, he could just jump the start and take the lead that way. Yes, that’s what he’s going to do, to make sure he’s ahead when he needs to be. After all it doesn’t matter if he picks up a penalty, the race isn’t going to last that long anyway.

He looks down at the sea of controls on the steering wheel and begins the launch sequence. If he doesn’t set his switches right the car will stall instead of driving away and his plan will be for naught. He turns the green knob to position three, adjusts the blue dial to position two, flicks the red switch up, works the hand clutch and pulls the right gearbox paddle.

A red warning light flashes on the steering wheel.

Christ. That’s not it!

He screwed it up and needs to start again, but first he must cancel the process.
No.
He’s forgotten how to do that too.
Oh man.
Not to make excuses but he hasn’t really slept much in the last thirty-six hours and it’s coming back to bite him on the arse.

Stop, breathe and think. How do I cancel the process?

It’s not coming to him —

Pull back on both gearbox paddles at the same time!

He does it. It clears the red alert light.
Yes.
He starts the launch sequence again. He glances up at the start light gantry that hangs above the track.

All the lights blink on. The race start sequence has begun.

Damn damn damn.

He only has a couple of seconds to get this right. So much for jumping the start. He’ll be lucky to
make
the start at this rate. He looks back at the steering wheel.

Think think think.

‘Okay.’ He adjusts the blue dial to position three then turns the green knob to position two, flicks the red switch down, works the hand clutch and pulls the right gearbox paddle.

A green light flashes on the steering wheel.

Relief.

He looks back at the start light gantry.

The fourth light blinks off, then the fifth —

Go go go!

He works the hand clutch, steps on the gas and the turbocharged V6 thunders behind him. He steers right, does exactly what he was thinking about earlier, goes around the outside and down the side of the track—and Alonso doesn’t block him! In fact Alonso bogs down, gets a whole load of wheel spin and all but remains stationary.

Billy’s rear wheels hook up nicely, he’d warmed the tree sap perfectly, and the Iron Rhino launches beautifully. He slingshots past the Ferrari.

It
was
that easy.

I am fifth.

He glances left. On the other side of the track Räikkönen gets boxed in by the slow-moving Alonso on one side and a cheeky Hamilton, who tries to go around the outside, on the other. Unfortunately there’s not enough room for two. They trip over each other and touch wheels, the contact delaying both and allowing the twin Red Bulls ahead to skip away—with the Iron Rhino just behind.

I am third.

Billy keeps his foot in and ratchets through fifth, sixth, seventh gear. The acceleration is mind bending. He pulls up beside both Red Bulls, Vettel to his left, Ricciardo to Vettel’s left as they scream towards Sainte Devote, the tight right-hander, one of the most accident-prone spots on the F1 calendar. There’s not enough space for all of them to make the turn at the same time so someone will have to yield.

It’s not going to be me.

The corner approaches quickly.

Three into two does not go.

Time slows.

Don’t-brake-yet-don’t-brake-yet-don’t-brake-yet.

No one puts foot to brake.

Neither of the Red Bulls want to give up a position they’ll only have to regain later on a track that is a nightmare to pass on.

The corner arrives.

No one puts foot to brake.

Three into two
still
does not go.

Billy needs to be the last of the late brakers.

Don’t-brake-yet-don’t-brake-yet-don’t-brake-yet.

Ricciardo dabs the brakes and slows. Completely understandable. The young Aussie doesn’t want to wreck his car on the first lap. Billy sweeps past.

Time speeds up.

I’m tied for first.

Billy hits the brakes, paddles down the gears and turns into the corner, drifts the car across the track slightly—and touches wheels with Vettel, who’s right beside him.

It’s now a drag race up the hill.

Billy stamps on the gas and the rubber instantly hooks up, launches the Iron Rhino along the Avenue d’Ostende. He realises he might have the advantage because he’s not trying to make these tyres last for the fifteen laps until the first pit stop, like Vettel is. He can take all the life out of the rubber now and use it to get ahead.

There’s just one problem with that theory. The Red Bull is
super
quick. Its sleek aerodynamics are so far superior to the barn door-like Iron Rhino that it’s embarrassing Dieter paid the designer a reported five million dollars this year. The Red Bull leaps out of the corner like the panther he encountered last night and takes a half-length lead before they’re even one hundred metres up the road.

Billy keeps his foot flat to the floor but the damn Red Bull draws away. This is not part of the plan. Billy needs to be ahead. He needs to control the race. He falls in behind the Red Bull and slipstreams the vehicle, its rear wing bobbing and weaving just half a metre in front, the road surface as smooth as you could expect from what is a public street for most of the year.

The Red Bull isn’t pulling away now because it’s the one punching a hole in the air, which Billy’s car doesn’t have to do. It means the Iron Rhino requires less power to maintain its speed, power he can use to accelerate —

Woh.
Through the kink at Beau Rivage, two seventy-five klicks, easy.

Yee ha! Man, this is fun.

Concentrate.

The corner approaches. It’s a lazy left-hander that arcs around Casino Square. Billy pulls out of the slipstream and pushes the ERS button on the steering wheel, gives the engine an additional one hundred and twenty kilowatts of power.