Sabatino pushed on.
Minutes later, she saw the back end of the car in front.
But 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.
SIXTY-NINE
Sabatino 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.
Straker, Nazar, and the entire world watched this high-speed bottleneck, all at the limit of their nerves.
Sabatino 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, schmoints. 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!’