Driven (41 page)

‘Just bring it home, Remy,’ snapped Backhouse fiercely. ‘There’ll be time for all that later.’

Round they went. Sabatino continued to push hard. She was now bearing down on a Ferrari.

Lap fifty-one and the second round of pit stops began.

Aston came in and was out again in a phenomenally fast stop.

Two laps later Sabatino was in. Her boys had to get this one as
right as right. They did – everyone beginning to sense the prize was within their grasp. They achieved their fastest change and refuelling stop all year. That and her next few lap times made a difference. By the time the Ferrari in front of her pitted, he re-emerged on the track behind her.

Didn’t that give her P5?

But then the penny seemed to drop for Lambourn.

Aston suddenly dug deeper and found another level himself. Had he been coasting up till now, believing his margin to be big enough from the start?

In the next lap Aston’s Lambourn shaved four tenths off her time.

The one after that another six tenths.

And then half a second in the next.

‘He’s closing in on the Massarella in P2,’ reported Backhouse. ‘He could be in a position to take him soon.’

Sabatino kept driving, but waited with bated breath to hear news about her Championship rival.

It wasn’t long in coming.

And it wasn’t good.

‘He’s taken Simi Luciano,’ Backhouse announced. ‘Aston’s up into P2.’

‘Oh, no,’ bellowed Sabatino. ‘Eight points to my three – would give him a five-point advantage –
and
the title.’

Sabatino pushed hard in response.

There was some distance between her and the next car down the track from her. With fourteen laps to go, she was going to have to dig in.

B
ut this was the scenario that Straker had not even dared to imagine.

Sabatino had showed brilliant resolve to fight her way up the field, taking advantage of opportunities as they arose – gutsy overtaking – slick strategy – and well-timed stops which had gained her track position.

But now, she was entering the proximity zone that he had dreaded.

She was coming up on not one – but
two
Massarellas.

If the email Straker had recovered from Michael Lyons’s laptop showing Van Der Vaal’s readiness to pay for collisions was serious, then they were all coming up on
the
moment of danger.

Proximity.

S
traker called up Tahm Nazar on the pit wall. ‘Do you want to warn her – now – about the possible threat from the Massarellas?’ he asked.

‘Hold on.’

There was a moment’s pause.

‘Matt? I’ve just told Andy. He’s got the relationship and the responsibility. I’ll let him decide.’

On the other net, Straker heard Backhouse immediately radio Sabatino.

‘Go ahead, Andy.’

‘Watch yourself with the Massarellas, Rems. We think they could be out to bump you.’

‘That’s all we fucking need.’

F
or two laps Sabatino mounted a substantial charge, clocking up two fastest laps consecutively.

Aston responded in kind.

He, too, clocked up a fastest lap. This was now a psychological battle – played out on different parts of the circuit – each trying to undermine the confidence of the other, each trying to put the other under pressure.

‘Aston’s catching the race leader,’ reported Backhouse. ‘He’s only point-four seconds behind.’

Sabatino, hurtling down the start/finish straight, saw the key data on her pit board, and breathed deeply. ‘Shit. P1 to my P5. The Championship would definitely be his – if he gets past.’

Growling into her helmet, Sabatino pushed again, and flew round the exhilarating Interlagos circuit. Her sights were now set on Adi Barrantes, her saboteur from Spa, in the Massarella – in P4. ‘How far am I behind him?’ she asked.

‘Three seconds. You can do it.’

Sabatino belted on round the track. She soon saw her quarry.

She was so nearly in reach. ‘Can I turn up the mixture?’

Backhouse hummed. ‘Not really – you’ll be cutting it fine to finish.’

‘Andy, a miss is a miss. Unless I take this guy, Aston’s going to win anyway. Who’ll care by how much?’

Backhouse paused. Straker wondered whether he was running the numbers again or weighing it up. ‘Okay, okay. Turn it up a notch.’

Sabatino screamed to herself. ‘Right, let’s see what this brings.’

She felt the difference immediately. The car produced an extra point-five a lap.

In two more laps, she was ready to make her challenge.

S
traker, on the edge of his seat in the motor home, stared at his surveillance screens until his eyes hurt – continuing to study every inch of the Massarella, looking for any sign that Barrantes was positioning himself to do her harm. He could hardly bear it. Radioing Tahm Nazar, again, he felt he had to say or do something.

The tension was too much.

‘Tahm, are you up for putting on the show in front of the Massarella garage?’

‘You think now’s the time?’

‘I’ve no idea. Nothing’s happened yet. But for the sake of a moment’s theatrics, might the deterrent be worth a shot?’

Nazar acknowledged the call.

Straker switched one of the two CCTV screens to show the pit lane. He saw the turquoise-clad Ptarmigan team boss quickly climb down from the prat perch on the pit wall and walk in the direction of the Massarella garage, two slots down. There, Straker could see Nazar stand and make a show of studying what the Massarella team were doing.

T
here were only ten more laps to go.

Sabatino had to get right up the Massarella’s back end. Half a lap later she was there – starting to badger Barrantes for real – through the corners between Six and Twelve.

Out of Turn Fourteen, Subida Dos Boxes, she got a superb exit – immediately feeling she had the better start up the hill.

They screamed up and round the long left-hand sweep, and into the pit straight. She felt she had enough. The momentum was with her. The two of them, one behind the other, roared up the long straight – and across the line.

Five hundred yards to go to the corner – Turn One.

Sabatino looked for a tow.

She drew up to Barrantes’s gearbox.

On they ran.

Now! She ducked to the left, ready to make a charge down the inside – just as she had against the Mercedes earlier.

The yards flashed by.

She drew level with the Massarella’s rear wheels.

She willed the car on.

Did she have any more?

She was pulling forward by a matter of inches at a time.

S
traker sat forward in his chair. Switching all of his screens to cover Adi Barrantes’s CCTV feeds, he peered at the live shot of the Massarella driver’s cockpit. Straker was looking for any untoward behaviour. The most obvious, though, would be for Barrantes simply to “close the door” on Sabatino too soon – driving across her path into the corner to claim the racing line. He could easily bump her – and take her out. He would surely claim he was unsighted – claim he thought he had the advantage, getting the collision dismissed merely as yet another racing incident.

Straker stared at the screen – studying both of Barrantes’s hands on the wheel.

The two cars were going to have to brake. Who was going to blink first?

Sabatino held her position.

She was still hurtling into the corner. She was completely committed. It was now up to the Massarella. She was at the point of no return. If he didn’t brake, now, she would end up losing her front end, sliding across in front of him, possibly taking him off with her. Straker suddenly realized that that would be an even cleverer way to take her out – to make it look like it was her fault.

‘A
rrgh!’ she screamed as she willed her car on, willing him to brake, and waiting for the outcome.

Come on! Come on! Come on!

Yes?
Yes?
Yes! He blinked. Yes!

He
blinked first!

Barrantes lifted off. She shot past him. She’d done it. She’d taken him down the inside.

Would she now be able to hold it together?

She fought on.

She
was
holding it together.

She was through!

But Barrantes was already retaliating. Slewing and wrestling his car as well, he flung the Massarella round the corner and pointed it down the hill of the Senna S, straight after her.

She stole a glance in her mirrors. She could see the black menacing shape of the Massarella behind her. It closed right up. It appeared in her right-hand mirror.

Then disappeared.

As she continued to accelerate hard, she suddenly caught a fleeting glimpse of the black shape in her other mirror. He was crawling all over her gearbox.

Sabatino reached her top speed, flying at full tilt down the Reta Oposta. Barrantes wasn’t able to get any closer than that, though. She’d managed to hold the Massarella off against a counter-attack. She had taken P4. Not only that, she’d managed to make it stick. And P4 was good – it was good
enough
. Her P4 to Aston’s P2 was
back to a three-point deficit, and while that would put them equal in the Championships, her number of race wins would still see her ahead.

Distance, now, was what she wanted. As much distance from Barrantes – to neutralize any threat he posed from behind – and, at the same time, to close the distance on the car in front.

On they raced.

The Ptarmigan was performing as well as Sabatino could have prayed for. Her lap time was consistently quick – on or near the fastest times of the day.

T
hen something unexpected happened.

Sabatino started gaining on the car in front.

Substantially.

Point-six of a second on one lap.

Point-eight on the next.

She was gaining rapidly on the car in P3.

The excitement mounted. Could the crowds and TV audience be about to see another spectacular overtaking manoeuvre, right into the closing stages – not only of the race but of the Championship?

Sabatino pushed on.

Minutes later, she saw the back end of the car in front.

B
ut this elevated Straker to a completely new level of anxiety.

The car she was closing in on was the other Massarella.

Calling up Backhouse on the radio, he asked: ‘Is she that fast, or is Luciano slowing down to let her catch him up?’

Backhouse paused. ‘Don’t know.’

Straker breathed in. ‘Where’s Barrantes? How far behind her is he?’

‘Two point two seconds.’

‘If Luciano slows any more, he’ll back her up to allow Barrantes to catch her. Remy’ll be in a Massarella sandwich. Who knows what shit they might then try and pull?’

Tahm Nazar’s voice came up on the radio. ‘Andy, you’d better warn Remy what’s happening. I’ll go and make another show in front of the Massarella pit wall.’

Two laps later and Straker’s worst fear was realized.

Simi Luciano, in P3,
had
slowed yet further, but not sharply enough to make it look like it was deliberate. Sabatino very quickly got on terms, moving into his immediate wake. His slower pace, though, was causing Sabatino to slow up too. Adi Barrantes, in the other Massarella, was bearing right down on Sabatino from behind.

Straker’s heart was in his mouth.

If these bastards were going to do anything to thwart Ptarmigan’s Championship chances, now was the time to do it. They could inflict the cruellest wound of all – just three laps from the end of the season.

Straker thought that as an act of revenge, it would have little to parallel it.

S
abatino was rounding Subida Dos Boxes, Turn Fourteen, with both black cars looming large in her forward and rearward vision. From that exit, the three of them began their long uphill drag, sweeping left-handed all the way into the end of the pit straight. Nose to tail. Sabatino got a good exit. But so did the Massarella in front. She kept in touch as they raced up the hill. Then, looking in her mirror, she saw that Barrantes had had an even better launch behind. He was right up her tail as they passed through Turn Fifteen.

Sabatino watched the car in front, desperate to see any sign that Luciano was lifting off, and trying to back her up into the other Massarella. She could benefit from slipstreaming Luciano, but so too could Barrantes take a bigger tow by being behind both of them.

Straker watched the Massarella sandwich as the three cars raced at full throttle up the hill in line astern and crossed the finish line. He found himself holding his breath – yet again.

Sabatino had to remain hyper alert and be ready to react to any action against her – whether that came as tactical manoeuvrings, field of play or foul play.

Unless
she took the initiative…

Sabatino decided to make her move.

As before, she ducked out quickly from the slipstream to the left, setting up for a lunge down the inside of the front Massarella.

But Luciano reacted rapidly and moved across, forcing her even further left. The circuit was wide enough for her not to be pushed into the wall, but she was well off the racing line and onto the dirty part of the track.

This veer across her front had taken some of the steam out of her attack.

Looking into the mirror on each side, Sabatino was now desperate to know where Barrantes had gone.

She couldn’t see him.

She kept to the inside of the leading Massarella as they both hurtled towards Turn One. Again, Sabatino looked for Barrantes.

Then she saw him. There he was. Behind her, to the right – and the distances between them were only a matter of feet.

Sabatino looked at the road ahead. The corner was looming. The gap was beginning to close in front of her. She would have to move out, to the right, to regain the racing line if she was to maintain her speed into and through this corner. She looked in the mirror to see Barrantes. He was right there on the outside of her, overlapping her rear axle with his front wing.

She was boxed in. If she moved out now, wouldn’t she hit him? If she moved out now, would he yield?

She hinted at making a move. Barrantes didn’t budge. He was holding his ground. Sabatino moved back. She was completely hemmed in. If she didn’t want to be penalized for any collision,
she
would have to do the yielding. Which would cost her the place. And that, with only three laps to go, would easily cost her her title.

Sabatino was running out of road.

Luciano, in front of her, secured his claim to the racing line and cut in front of her – right to left – towards the apex. Sabatino wanted to do the same, but was still being fenced in by Barrantes – forcing her into a much tighter angle. If she maintained her current speed and line she would corner too deep, particularly on the exit. And that would be exactly what Barrantes wanted – allowing him to slip in down the inside as she went wide, on the far side of the turn.

There was no time left.

Sabatino had to decide.

Lift off and give Barrantes the place or keep on, run too deep – and give Barrantes the chance to cut back on the far side of the corner and
still
take the place.

Both options sucked.

S
traker, Nazar, and the entire world watched this high-speed bottleneck, all at the limit of their nerves.

S
abatino acted instinctively. When cornered, lash out.

As the distance to the corner closed down, she resolutely maintained her position. That would surely put Barrantes a little on edge – being that ballsy.

Then, exactly when she expected Barrantes to be thinking about braking, she flicked the car as violently to the right as she could – for an instant – checked that lock and swung the wheel back to the left. It was not dangerous as she never encroached on Barrantes’s line. It was just an extremely aggressive insinuation. The sharpness of the flick, in the confines of their convergence, was startling.

Barrantes couldn’t
not
react. He
had
to flinch.

And he did – a little more than Sabatino had even hoped for, flinching out to the right.

The moment he’d done it, she turned her wheel quickly, immediately filling the space – the line – Barrantes had just vacated. She was now further to the right than she had been before. While not exactly on the racing line, she
had
given herself a better angle into the corner.

Would it be enough?

She maintained her pace into the apex.

On her outside, Barrantes was still feeling the effects of destabilizing his line so close to the corner. He, now, was going too fast on an angle that was wide of the entry. It was his turn to stab at the brake and try to rebalance his car and approach. But that’s when it went wrong for him. Barrantes locked-up his front left. Losing grip at that critical moment, he started running even wider. His front right then ran off the clean line of the track and rolled onto the dirty part. Braking now, that tyre could only lock-up too. He was suddenly in recovery and survival mode.

Poetic justice! His intimidation had been thwarted by Sabatino’s reply in kind.

She was soon in the midst of the corner.

She fought herself round Turn One. Inevitably, she ran slightly wide, but with Barrantes fighting his own battle with the corner away to her right, she could use the full width of the circuit without fear of his cutting back inside.

Sabatino found stability and was back on the power. But Luciano in front had got the cleaner exit and was already charging down the hill through the Senna S below her.

Even so, she’d
done
it.

She’d defended P4.

How the hell had she got out of that? She looked in her mirrors for comfort. Barrantes was a good way back, still recovering from his flinch-induced error. She looked forwards to the other Massarella: Luciano looked like he was racing again, now that his wing man had failed in his assisted attempt to get by. Luciano’s attention had clearly switched from team tactics to maintaining his own position, P3.

It afforded Sabatino some time to settle herself.

‘Well played!’ yelled Backhouse into the radio. ‘What a game of chicken!’

She shouted back, ‘Where’s Paddy?’

‘Still in P2.’

‘To my P4?’

‘Correct.’

‘His eight points to my five? We’d be
level
on points.’

‘Points,
schm
oints. You’ve got more wins this year than he has.’

‘I’m still on for the Championship, then?’

‘You are.’

‘How far back is Aston from the leader?’

‘A good eight seconds.’

Sabatino looked down at her steering wheel display.

There were only two laps to go.

Aston couldn’t do it, could he? He couldn’t make up eight seconds
and
take the leader? Not with only two laps remaining.

‘You should be okay,’ said Backhouse reassuringly. ‘Hold steady. Lean off the mixture.’

‘Two more laps.’

‘Two more.’

‘Oh my God!’