blasted over the loudspeakers, and Lillian sank to her seat low in the stands to wait for the race to begin.
* * * * *
Pierre Moreau came into the race with two wins under his belt and one of the best teams in the world. His media demands alone took up way too much fucking time too, and Lars could think of a hell of a lot of better things to do with his time than speak to sports broadcasters and journalists covering the race.
When it came to the car, though, he could talk about it all day. The Toyota hybrid boasted enough speed and handling to win the race—and with luck on his side, dodge disaster. From what The Guard could tell, the hit would come on the racetrack. They planned for Moreau to wreck and someone would ensure he couldn’t walk away from the disaster.
Lars didn’t know when it was coming, or on what portion of the track, but he needed to be prepared for all eventualities. Which meant he couldn’t relax for even one second.
He ran his hand over the car. The big rear wings and the aerodynamics of the front end made him jittery with eagerness to climb behind the wheel.
To impersonate Moreau, he utilized his mastery of disguise, all his acting skills and every bit of what he knew of Moreau. Having done a crash-course on the man’s speech inflections, gestures and expressions, he had Moreau nailed. So far, nobody seemed the wiser.
His press agent remained the only person who gave him concern. Since they worked together closely, she might pick up on any small changes in his personality. He already planned to keep his distance from her, and luckily, she didn’t poke her nose in his business.
When he climbed behind the wheel, he experienced a thrill. One thing he could say about his job—he lived life to the fullest.
The first laps, he took at a leisurely hundred-twenty miles per hour. Along the track, people set up with tents and campers. One guy fixed a jacuzzi on top of his truck, and he lifted his beer in salute as Moreau passed. Or Lars impersonating Moreau did, rather.
On a straighter stretch, he opened up the power of the engine and released a hoot of joy when the car surged forward.
A glance to the side showed him a car coming up on his right. He tensed, prepared for impact. After a quick calculation in his head, realized that he was ahead enough of the car that a blow wouldn’t result in death. This guy simply wanted to play the game.
Lars stepped on it. He rocketed forward enough to pass the car, but soon it raced next to him, neck and neck. Are you the motherfucker trying to kill Moreau? You’re fucking with the wrong guy.
A tenth of a second didn’t seem like much time for him to be ahead, though he felt confident in the lead. He knew from watching several races that most drivers had more ambition than speed, and they burnt out quick. This asshole would be no different.
In order to clone himself to Moreau, he’d required a bit of help from Roman. The asshole might not be able to beat him on a racetrack, however he possessed a master skill in disguise. His tips and tricks to give Lars’s face and jawline a new structure by using prosthetics gave him enough confidence to pass himself off as Moreau, while the real Moreau sat safely tucked away in a secret spot with one of their missionaries as guard.
Once the race ended, and Lars walked away from the crash meant to kill Moreau, then the driver would be heavily guarded until they ran the hitman to earth and took the guy out. When it came to hitmen…well, Lars had a motto that only one of them could come away alive, and it’d always be him.
He braked heavily coming into a turn. The car closed in on his left this time. A light brush of his bumper against the side of Lars’s car gave him a burst of adrenaline. They approached the main stands now. Surely this asshole didn’t want to dance right here, right now, so early into the race.
Yes, he fucking does.
Lars took the hit at top speed. The impact slammed him, but he used all his training to brace himself in a way that would lessen the pain factor and keep him from blacking out as they collided. His car rolled, hit a wall.