“No, it’s not one of your cars,” Gus says, “It’s the Spanish team’s.”
“The Spanish team?” I repeat, “You mean...Marques’ car has been tampered with? ”
Gus nods his head, and Enzo and I exchange a weighted glance.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Enzo, “I got a chance to warn him. Maybe he was extra vigilant because I put that bug in his ear.”
“When did you see him?” Enzo demands.
“Oh...just before. Around,” I reply vaguely. I don’t want to tell Enzo anything about my run in with Marques. If I do, he might go and throttle him on the spot.
“At least they caught the problem before we started,” Enzo says, “Maybe we can avoid another tragedy this go-around.”
“Maybe they’ll actually get some prints or something,” I say hopefully, “Something that will finally give us a clue about who’s been mucking up the works this whole time.”
A shadow falls across the doorway as I speak. Two figures in the threshold of the trailer catch my eye, and I look up to see two men I haven’t met, standing there in the open door. I notice at once that they’re wearing the uniforms of F1 race officials, but far more disconcerting are the solemn expressions on their faces.
“Can we help you gentlemen?” I ask, standing to greet them.
“Are you Siena Lazio?” the taller of the two men asks.
“That’s me, yes,” I say, “Is there something I can do for you?”
“You can come with us,” the shorter man says, taking a step toward me, “We have a couple of questions for you, regarding some damage to Rafael Marques’ car.”
I feel the breath rush out of my lungs. “You don’t think...I had anything to do with that, do you?” I ask.
“If you’ll just come with us, Miss Lazio,” the tall man insists.
I look back and forth between the officials and my brother, completely at a loss. Just when I thought this year couldn’t get any more screwed up.
“Hold on,” I tell the men, hurrying back to Enzo. I plant a quick kiss on his cheek before he can say a word. “In case the Grand Prix starts without me, good luck.” I tell him.
“Miss Lazio,” insists the short man.
“I’m coming,” I tell him, playing it far cooler than I feel, “I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding, after all.
Chapter Eleven
Deep Shit
I square my shoulders and walk past the race officials, keeping my head held high. But while my face is composed as can be, my mind is absolutely reeling. What the hell could the F1 authorities possibly want to talk to me about? They can’t honestly think I have anything to do with the sabotage? It was my own brother and Harrison who were the targets of the London tampering. What would I be doing messing with my own loved ones? But even as the scores of questions ricochet around my head, I keep my mouth shut. Best just to ride this one out.
As my escorts walk me across the Ferrelli camp, I see Bex and Charlie come bounding toward me. I swallow a groan as they approach, watching as confusion clouds their eyes.
“Siena, what’s going on?” Charlie asks, eyeing the officials.
“I’ve just got to go sort a few things out,” I tell him, smiling through my panic.
“What things?” Bex asks, “It’s Marques who’s been messed with this time, not us.”
“We don’t have time for this,” the taller of my captors says. He closes a hand around my arm, and comprehension washes over Bex and Charlie.
“They don’t think you...?” Bex breathes.
“Get your hands off her,” Charlie growls.
“Calm down, both of you!” I snap. “I’ll be back in three seconds. Just make sure Enzo has everything he needs. And if Harrison stops by...” Jesus. I don’t even know.
“We’ll hold down the fort,” Bex promises, as I’m led away, “Don’t you worry about a thing, Siena.”
Fat chance of that, I think to myself.
The race officials herd me quickly away from the action of the race track. As the commotion dies down behind us, I spot a huge square building up ahead. It looks like a miniature warehouse, set up just for this occasion. I gather that the F1 offices for this particular race are inside those gray walls. As we make our way ever closer, my nerve wavers. What if I’ve violated some kind of rule, getting myself wrapped up with Harrison over the course of this season? What if my relationship with him really is at the root of all the mayhem that’s plagued this championship from the get go? Part of me begins to fear that I am actually guilty of breaking some unspoken law of F1. But if that’s true...then what will the consequences be?
As we approach the low, square building a door swings open towards us. Harsh fluorescent lighting illuminates the space within, and two more race officials step out to meet our little party. What’s with all the muscle, here? You’d think I was some sort of dangerous criminal, the way they’re ushering me in here. I’m about the furthest thing from a criminal there is. I’ve never done anything worse than steal a lollipop from our local drug store when I was five. And even then I felt so bad that I brought it back the next day.
Keeping a friendly smile on my face, I march into the ominous building. A maze of cubicles and office doors sprawls all around us once we’re inside, and I’m promptly shown into a small, harshly lit room. On the door, the words “Head of Security” are etched. You’d think that the F1 higher ups would have more important things to do right now than quiz me about my relationship status, but what do I know? Maybe they need my help spinning this PR nightmare into a workable narrative for the fans.
“Wait here,” the shorter of my escorts tells me. I settle into an unforgiving office chair, and the officials step back out of the little room. Alone, I let the charming smile fall from my lips. Something feels so wrong, here. I haven’t even heard the full story yet, but this reeks of misinformation, or worse. I feel as though I’ve been waiting forever when the door finally opens again. I turn to see three serious looking men in suits come into the office. They look at me as though I’ve just been booked for triple homicide, but I greet them politely all the same.
“Gentlemen,” I smile, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting any of you before. My name is—”
“We know who you are, Miss Lazio,” says one of the men, heavyset and red-faced. “I’m Mr. Tanner, the Head of Security for this race track.”
“Busy day for you, huh?” I say, striving for a lighthearted tone.
“This is no laughing matter, Miss Lazio,” says a stick-thin man with wispy gray hair, “It’s a miracle that we caught the problem with Rafael Marques’ car before he was allowed to race. Luckily, his team had a backup vehicle available, so we didn’t have to hold up the event any longer than necessary.”
As if on cue, a swell of noise rises up from the race just outside this little building. A loud horn blares, and I know without seeing that the race in now underway. I bury my disappointment and anxiety deep under my skin, lest these men catch onto my discomfort.
“May I ask why you needed to speak with me?” I say to the trio before me.
“We have reason to believe that there may be some...animosity...between you and Mr. Marques,” says the third man, a short and wiry short.
“I barely know Rafael Marques,” I tell him, “Before this season began, I’d never even met the man.”
“But you have made his acquaintance since this particular tour started?” Mr. Tanner leads, “You’ve met with Marques in situations that were not purely professional?”
“I’ve never gone out of my way to meet Marques anywhere,” I say, “We’ve run into each other a couple of times outside of the track, but the same can be said of just about any young people from any team on this tour. There are only so many watering holes in any given city, you understand.”
“Unfortunately, Miss Lazio, I do not fully understand your relationship with Mr. Marques,” says the tall, thin man. “We received a piece of information just an hour ago that m
akes this situation a bit difficult to parse.”
“What information might that be?” I ask stiffly.
Mr. Tanner nods to the smallest man with grim solemnity. The wiry gentleman nods back, reaching into his jacket and extracting a Blackberry. As I look on, bemused, he scrolls through the device and pulls up a video file. The man slides the phone toward me across the desk, and I feel my questioners’ three sets of eyes settle firmly on my face. Swallowing hard, I lower my eyes to the phone, squinting down at the unclear video.
“So what you’re saying is that I should watch out?” asks an eerily familiar voice, “Your brother and lover boy are telling me to check myself?”
“In so many words,” I hear myself reply tinnily.
My heart screeches to a halt as I recognize the content of this video. The person behind the camera shifts the recording device just slightly, and I spot a flash of red on the screen. My dress. Someone was videotaping the conversation Marques and I had at the bar before the Grand Prix, when I tried to warn him about foul play. But why would this have landed me here? I was trying to tell him to be safe! I look up at the three men, wanting to explain myself. But their stony gazes silence me.
“Well, what are their words, exactly?” Marques asks in the video. There is a pause in the conversation, a moment of grating feedback as my recorded image takes a sip of her drink.”
“We all think it would be wise of you to watch your back,” says my voice on the screen. The next few moments of audio are muddled and unclear, but my voice continues, “...Isn’t afraid to play dirty. If you keep doing well, you’re going to get what...is coming to you.”
“Wait a minute,” I say to the three men, “That’s not what I said. I was telling him that he needed to be careful—”
“That’s not what the tape says,” says Mr. Tanner.
I look helplessly down at the screen, watching as Marques reaches for me. I feel a sick feeling rise in my gut as I watch his hands graze my thighs, just out of view of the camera. Whoever shot this did it in such a way that totally skewed the story.
“I swear to god, I’ll end you,” my likeness shouts on the screen. The rest of our conversation, all of Marques’ disgusting come-ons, everything’s conveniently inaudible. Everything except my own damning words.
“It’s not just talk,” I say on the screen. In the F1 offices, I wince, knowing what’s coming next. I look on in horror as the video captures me punching Marques across the face, a frightened yelp rising out of him. Bex runs into the frame, pulling me away from the driver. The last words that can be heard on the video are mine.
“Do you really want to mess with me? Because I won’t hold back,” I hear myself say, before the video cuts to black. Silence engulfs the little room as I raise my eyes frantically to the men sitting opposite me.
“Well?” Mr. Tanner prompts, “Do you care to explain the content of that video, Miss Lazio?”
“Sure,” I say, “It was obviously doctored.”
“We thought you might say that,” the tall man drones.
“It’s clear as day,” I insist, “You can see for yourself, whole pieces of the conversation were cut out. Everything I say, it was taken out of context. If you’d heard the whole exchange—”
“We heard quite enough,” says the small man, “And what we heard was you blatantly threatening Rafael Marques.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, tamping down my outrage as best I can, “But this is absolutely ridiculous. You can’t possibly be taking this video seriously.”
“We’re taking it very seriously. Another F1 driver could have been seriously hurt or killed today,” Mr. Tanner says, “And this video captures you not only threatening but also assaulting that same driver just before the Grand Prix commenced.”
“Have you even paused to consider the source?” I ask, exasperated, “Who even sent you that misleading little movie?”
“We received this tip from an anonymous source,” Mr. Tanner sniffs.
“OK,” I say, taking a deep breath, “So Marques and I got into a completely warranted argument at a bar. But you have to believe me, I was trying to warn him. After what happened to Enzo and Harrison, I wanted to make sure that he was on the lookout for foul play. It wasn't a threat—”
“Yes, the drivers you get close to seem to have all kinds of technical difficulties,” Mr. Tanner says, narrowing his eyes.
I stare at the rotund man, the corners of my vision going black with rage. “Are you...accusing me of something, Mr. Tanner?” I ask, all but frothing at the mouth.
“Not officially,” he says, “That’s not my place. I’m merely pointing out that your involvement with this sport is becoming...problematic.”
“My brother and...Harrison...almost died because of what’s been going on during this championship,” I say heatedly, “How could you think that I have had anything to do with—”
“It’s not my job to presume your possible motives,” Mr. Tanner says, “It is only my job to make sure that my track is kept as safe as possible. And right now, that means making sure that you stay far away from it.”
“But I have to get back to the race,” I tell him, “My team needs me.”
“Which team is that, again?” Mr. Tanner asks, “Because it seems as though you’re close to many. So many, in fact, that I can’t help but wonder if the team you’re really looking out for is simply team Siena Lazio.”
“I’m not going to stand for this,” I tell the trio of men before me, “This little interrogation is entirely uncalled for, completely baseless! I can’t believe you had the nerve to march me up here on nothing more than a whim—”
“A whim?” the tall man scoffs, “A bit more than that, I’d say. This video is circumstantial evidence against you.”
“That video is a bunch of bullshit,” I snap back, “And I, for one, am not going to sit here and let you all throw mud at me for something I could not have possibly been responsible for.”
“You’re right, Miss Lazio,” Tanner says coolly, “You’re under no obligation to stay here with us. We merely needed to ask you a few pertinent questions for security purposes.”
“Well, as fun as it’s been, I need to be getting back down to the Ferrelli pit,” I say, standing up, “I’d say it’s been a pleasure, except that it hasn’t.”
“I’m afraid we can’t permit you back onto the track, Miss Lazio,” the small man says.
“Excuse me?” I ask, “What authority to do you have—”
“All of it,” Mr. Tanner smiles, “I’ve ruled you to be a security threat to this race, Miss Lazio. You’ll need to keep away from the premises until the Grand Prix has been run.”
“But my team—” I protest.
“They’ll manage without you, I’m sure,” Mr. Tanner says. “I’m sure you’ll be able to watch the final race in Dallas. If your stories check out with the authorities, that is.”
“This is insane,” I say, “I’ve got nothing to do with the destruction of any F1 cars. What could I possibly stand to gain from something like that?”
“You've been getting a lot of press lately,” the tall man points out, “Some people will go to great lengths for a bit of celebrity.”
I’m too furious to even speak. I know that if I open my mouth, a string of wildly creative curses and swears will come flooding out, making even more of a mess for me and everyone I care about. So instead of railing against the ignorant, smug trio of men before me, I turn on my heel and march out of the office. I tear through the hallways and out the front door, sucking in deep breaths of air as I stagger into the outdoors once again. From the track, I can hear the familiar sounds of revving engines, cheering fans, the fast-talking announcer. Every cell in my body strains toward the track, but I’m not about to test my luck.
Instead, I whip out my cell and summon one of Ferrelli’s private cars. I need to hightail it back to the hotel, scream into a pillow for about a half hour, and then figure out what the hell is going on here. It kills me to know
that I won’t be there to cheer Harrison and Enzo on, but I’m sure they’ll understand my predicament. As much as it can possibly be understood, that is.
Chapter Twelve
Absence and Longing
Watching the Detroit Grand Prix from my hotel room is a bizarre experience. I switch on the flat screen in my room the moment I get in, and find that the race is already halfway run. Settling down in front of the TV, I spot the two cars I care most about in the race out in front of the pack. Despite today’s strange, uncomfortable turn of events, my spirits are lifted at once as I see that Enzo and Harrison are vying for first place—and Marques is nowhere to be seen. Things are playing out perfectly, despite my absence.
“The race got off to a bumpy start this morning,” says the TV announcer, “As the car of Spanish driver Rafael Marques was found to have been tampered with sometime late last night.”
“This really has been quite the dramatic season,” says a second sportscaster, “Of course, Formula One world championships are always exciting affairs. But we’ve seen more than our fair share of odd and tragic occurrences this year.”
“That’s right,” says the first voice, “It all started back in Barcelona, when Maxwell Naughton’s car inexplicably crashed during a routine preliminary run. Then of course, the ascent of the unknown Harrison Davies as a frontrunner took us all by surprise. And speaking of Harrison Davies, how about the epic crash that he and Lorenzo Lazio got into back in Moscow? Rumor has it that whole kerfuffle started over Lazio’s sister Siena getting romantically involved with Davies.”
“That was quite the tabloid scandal,” says the second man, “It’s rather uncharacteristic of F1 to be so muddied with gossip and foul play. And it hasn’t stopped with a star crossed romance, either. Both Lazio and Davies’ cars were tampered with during the London Grand Prix, resulting in the serious injury of drivers Sven Landers and Alexi Rostov. And now this sabotage of Marques’ car? Is it me, or is this all getting to be a bit too much?”
Take Me Series (COMPLETE BOX SET) Page 41
