Chapter 145
Chapter 145:
The white car eased onto the blistering track, sunlight glaring across its hood. She tapped the brake out of habit, only to find the pedal stiffer than yesterday, as though a thin cushion had been wedged beneath her foot.
Her brows drew together. Turning the wheel, she noticed the steering lagged by half a beat—sluggish and muffled, as if cotton had been crammed into the column.
Pressing the walkie-talkie, she asked evenly, “Bowman, did you set the car up wrong p>
Bowman’s voice crackled back through the static. “Mrs. Moore, you’re stressing over nothing. We ran the checks this morning—brake fluid and steering system are fine. Maybe you’re just a little rusty p>
Brinley let it go. Cars at the track were handled by countless drivers all year, and unexpected issues surfaced from time to time.
She drew in a steadying breath, pressed the accelerator, and the white car surged smoothly down the straight.
The first two laps passed without incident.
𝖱𝖾𝘢𝗱 𝘧𝘳𝘦e nov𝖾𝘭𝘀 о𝘯
She kept her speed reined in, focusing on compensating for every flaw she felt.
The brakes resisted, so she tapped them half a second earlier. The steering dragged, so she set up her turns in advance.
By the third lap, however, the glitches worsened.
As she fought through a string of S-curves, the wheel suddenly locked mid-turn—then snapped loose, spinning half a rotation too far when she tried to correct.
Brinley frowned, gripping the wheel so hard her knuckles turned white. The tires shrieked in protest as the car skimmed past the guardrail by inches. Cold sweat broke across her forehead. This was far more than a minor issue.
“Bowman, check the steering system right now!” she barked into the walkie-talkie.
The reply was nothing but harsh static.
A sharp flutter rattled Brinley’s chest. The situation reeked of imminent danger. She slammed her foot on the brake, trying to angle the car toward the pit lane, but the pedal felt fused to the floor.
It depressed barely an inch before locking solid.
The needle on the speedometer climbed past seventy, and up ahead, the sharpest hairpin on the circuit rushed closer like a looming threat.
Sweat seeped through her racing suit, clinging hot against her skin.
A vise-like tightness squeezed her chest, but her thoughts stayed razor-sharp.
This wasn’t a breakdown—it was cold, calculated sabotage.
She flicked her gaze to the rearview mirror. The straightaway stretched empty behind her—no one to call, no time left.
Ahead, the hairpin’s guardrail loomed larger with every heartbeat, sunlight bouncing off the metal in a blinding glare.
Brinley flicked on the hazard lights and yanked the handbrake.
For any racer, that desperate move was the final resort when brakes failed.
The car whipped sideways, tires screaming, acrid smoke curling up from the asphalt.
Harnessing the wild momentum, she fought the slide, forcing the nose toward the runoff zone carved into the bend.
That stretch was lined with thick rubber mats—the last buffer meant to catch out-of-control machines.
But just as her front bumper veered toward safety, the steering wheel froze stiff in her hands.