Eye of the Cobra

by Christopher Sherlock

  She shuddered as he thrust into her wetness, feeling the tension released from his body. It was frightening - knowing that she was more in love with him than he was with her - knowing the power he had to hurt her. But she needed him, there was no escape for her.

  She would not let him go. Everything he did turned her on - it almost scared Wyatt, the power he had over her body.

  ‘Wyatt, please, please . . .’

  Her orgasms went on and on, and he felt aroused again. This was the part about Suzie he loved. Earlier, there’d been a barrier within him that prevented him from getting close to her, but now, through the sheer joy of sex, he had managed to break through that barrier. She was a woman who loved to take risks, but who needed constant physical attention.

  ‘Just hold me, Wyatt. Hold me tight.’

  He held her - but already his mind was far away, thinking of Sunday and of the challenge.

  Debbie had never seen Ricardo so angry. Now she would get her revenge.

  ‘But you did well,’ she said, watching his distraught face.

  ‘Don’t you understand? “Well” is not enough.’ He looked menacingly around the pits.

  ‘There’s another practice tomorrow,’ she said. ‘You’ve still got a chance to show Wyatt you’re faster. After all, Bruce says your cars are identical.’

  His eyes burned like hot coals in the darkness. ‘I will put him in his place. He has a cheek.’

  ‘What, the cheek of being better?’

  He glared at her, ignoring the people around them. Then Bruce stepped between them, and she smiled.

  ‘Relax, man. You did bloody well. Wyatt’s just got more to prove than you have.’

  Bruce tried to seem concerned when in fact he was overjoyed. Wyatt’s performance had destroyed Ricardo’s complacency.

  ‘He has a better car than I have,’ Ricardo said in a low voice.

  Debbie could see the vein that ran across Bruce’s forehead, bulging with irritation. Bruce had the build of a street-fighter - a short, stocky body with strong arms. Even though there was grey in his hair, he had the physique of a young man. Now he said roughly: ‘You’re talking bullshit, Ricardo.’

  ‘You’ve set me up.’

  ‘You’ve lost your nerve.’

  It was cruel but effective. Bruce was the one in control. He had Ricardo and Wyatt worked out - he was doing everything he could to get them at each other’s throats on the track. He knew he would get faster times out of them both that way.

  Ricardo squared up in front of Bruce, his perfectly honed body rigid with anger. The curly black hair on the imperious head was wet with sweat. ‘Now you insult me,’ he spat out. He’d always proved himself with his fists - that was still the best way.

  ‘If you were the fastest there’d be nothing to insult. You’re the best driver in the world? Prove it.’

  Ricardo backed down. Bruce had called his bluff.

  ‘I will prove it where it counts,’ he said gruffly. ‘In the Grand Prix.’

  He turned his back on Bruce and took Debbie’s hand.

  But Bruce hadn’t finished with him.

  ‘To win, Ricardo, you’ll have to go faster than Wyatt. And you can’t walk away from that.’

  Ricardo stormed away from the pits, scowling at some reporters who tried to speak to him. He turned to Debbie.

  ‘Who does he think he is?’ he said, casting a contemptuous glance back at de Villiers.

  ‘The best manager in the business. I don’t know what you’re so upset about.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? I am not the champion. I have to prove it again.’

  They passed a very ample-looking, dark-skinned brunette. She smiled knowingly at Ricardo, and Debbie recognised her immediately from the beach. She was furious. Ricardo was playing games with her.

  He opened the car door for her.

  ‘You want to go to the hotel?’

  ‘I’d rather be on my own.’

  Ricardo got into the car and drove away, leaving her standing in the car park. She would be back in his bed that evening, he was quite sure. Women were all the same.

  Rod Talbot liked the spacious villa. From the patio, which was covered with luxuriant creepers and flowers, you could look down on the whole city of Rio, sprawled across the valley. In the distance a hang-glider floated gently towards the sea. Yes, he liked the villa. But he did not like Jules Ortega.

  Jules came out onto the patio, wearing a Hawaian shirt and neatly pressed white pants. He was sallow-skinned, with a full head of greasy black hair. However, Rod reflected, with his money he hardly needed looks to attract women.

  ‘Jules,’ Rod Talbot said lazily, ‘you live like a king.’

  ‘I am the king,’ Jules Ortega said.

  Rod eyed the man directly. Their working relationship was good - but he did not want Jules to think that he, Rod, was the weaker party in the deal. He could crush Jules; he had connections through which he could control him. But right now, Rod needed Jules. He was about to collect the first big delivery from the factory in the Amazon.

  ‘You have the merchandise?’ Rod asked, keeping his eyes locked on Jules.

  A smile crossed the sallow face.

  ‘For a price.’

  Rod tried to remain composed. He had underestimated Jules. Silently, he cursed himself. ‘What’s your game?’ he asked coolly.

  Jules spread his arms in a gesture of submissiveness that didn’t fool Rod for a moment. He had invested a lot of money

  with Jules, he had built the new plant for him and got him the chemicals from Europe. Now Jules was trying to cut him out.

  ‘I am greedy, Rod,’ Jules said.

  ‘We had an agreement.’

  Jules laughed. ‘You’re going to call your lawyer?’

  No, thought Rod, straightening his fingers. A lawyer is the last thing I need.

  A naked woman came out on the patio and waited, head bowed. ‘Marisa,’ Jules said. ‘Get Mr Talbot another drink. I think he needs it.’

  ‘Bourbon and soda,’ Rod said, and the woman took his glass and disappeared.

  ‘Do you like naked women, Jules?’ Rod said idly, looking after her.

  The Colombian laughed, his pearl-white teeth glistening like an animal’s. His teeth, reflected Rod, were the only decent part of his body.

  ‘I prefer women as servants,’ Jules said, ‘and I prefer them without clothes. That way I can see what they’ve got.’

  Marisa returned with his drink, and Rod took it, and waited for her to go.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘What’s the price?’

  ‘One hundred million dollars.’

  Rod bunched his fists.

  ‘You’re crazy! That’s four times what we agreed. How can you overcharge me for drugs that come out of the factory I built for you and Antonio Vargas?’

  ‘It is not overcharging. Remember, you can’t get the raw cocaine. And if you don’t pay, I will leak it to your government that you are laundering drug money in Europe.’

  Jules grinned and stroked back his long, lank hair. He rose, and walked over to the edge of the patio.

  ‘One hundred million, Rod.’

  ‘No deal.’

  Jules chuckled, and an ugly expression crossed his face.

  ‘Then you’re a dead man, Rod.’

  Talbot got up. It had been a mistake to deal with Jules, he realised that now. The man was scum. Antonio Vargas was the only one with any brains - Antonio Vargas was the one who controlled Jules anyway.

  And then Rod stopped in his tracks. He found that he was looking down the barrel of a .357 magnum revolver.

  ‘Pay,’ Jules said softly.

  ‘No. The deal with Vargas was that you make me the first two deliveries for free, to pay for the new factory I built you.’ Jules laughed again.

  ‘We thank you for the factory. Now please, no more of this. You must go from here.’

  Rod looked round. The naked woman had reappeared, holding a pump-shotgun that was pointed at his
stomach. He moved towards Jules and, as he had expected, the woman moved forward, an arm’s length away.

  ‘Pay up, Rod, or die,’ Jules growled.

  ‘All right. One hundred million, you bastard. Where can I make payment?’

  ‘I go to the race-track tomorrow, to see the practice for the Grand Prix.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there, with the money.’

  Jules relaxed, and as he did so Rod dropped slightly, swung his right foot out and round, and kicked the legs of the naked woman from under her. He straightened the fingers of his right hand and stabbed them like a blade into Jules’s gut. He caught the shotgun as it flew through the air, and then slammed his right foot up into Jules’s gun hand. The revolver spun uselessly across the tiled patio.

  Jules clutched at his stomach. It was as if he had been jabbed with a metal rod. He couldn’t breathe.

  Rod grabbed the woman’s arm, twisted the fingers back and forced her to sit on the edge of the balcony, facing the drop.

  ‘Stand up, you silly bitch.’

  She rose to her feet shakily, staring down at the drop below. Rod had merely to touch her and she would fall to her death. Then he gestured to Jules.

  ‘Up, on the edge of the balustrade, next to her.’

  Jules climbed up and stood on the concrete rail, Rio and the sea far beneath him.

  ‘Drop your pants.’

  Jules pulled down his trousers, which rested around his ankles.

  ‘And your jockeys.’

  The woman giggled nervously as she watched. An ugly expression crossed Rod’s face, then disappeared.

  ‘Amused, my dear?’

  The woman shook with fear. Rod pushed the nose of the shotgun into the small of her back and tears ran from her eyes.

  ‘No, no,’ she whimpered.

  ‘Your boss doesn’t want to play straight.’

  Jules was silent, scared of overbalancing and plunging into the void.

  ‘You think you can threaten me, Ortega?’

  Jules shook his head vigorously. Rod pushed the shotgun harder into the woman’s back, and she screamed and struggled to hold her balance. He pushed her again with the barrel.

  ‘No! No! No!’ she screamed as she hurtled into the void.

  Jules began to urinate uncontrollably. Rod raised the snout of the shotgun and brushed it under his testicles.

  ‘You want to live?’

  ‘P . . Please God.’

  ‘I’ll meet you tomorrow. I’ll pay you ten dollars. Is that satisfactory?’

  Jules nodded. It was eminently clear who had the real muscle.

  The heat in the pits was stifling. Wyatt sat in his jumpsuit listening to Suzie as she read an article in the newspaper to him. She read Portuguese fluently.

  ‘Last night, a maidservant of Jules Ortega, the well-known playboy, fell to her death from the balcony of his cliff-side home. Police say the cause of the accident is not known, but foul play is not suspected.’

  Wyatt caught sight of Ricardo staring at him. He returned the glance, and for a few moments was conscious of nothing except the hatred in the Italian’s eyes. The expression was mirrored in his own.

  ‘Easy, boys.’

  Bruce’s deep growl interrupted their mental battle, and Wyatt looked up.

  ‘Take it easy today,’ Bruce went on. ‘The heat will be on tomorrow. It’s sixty-one laps at an average speed of over a hundred and ten mph. That’s over one hundred and ninety miles, and my guess is that the temperature will be over thirty degrees.’

  ‘What happened to Ricardo yesterday?’

  ‘Engine failure. The Shadow got too hot. That can happen easily on this circuit, especially if you’re tailing another driver. There are going to be a lot more people jockeying for that front position now.’

  Wyatt stared down the lane at the other pit crews and the long line of cars. The occasional umbrella indicated the presence of a driver. In the distance the Sugar Loaf wavered in the heat-haze, but Wyatt could never think of Rio as a holiday city.

  ‘I was talking to Ronnie Halliday this morning . . .’

  Wyatt’s ears pricked up. Halliday was one of the most powerful men in motor-racing, the former boss of the Zanders team. He was president of the Formula One Constructors’ Association and vice-president of FISA, the world governing body for Grand Prix racing.

  ‘He thinks you’ve got the makings of a champion. But take my advice - don’t let people talk, show them instead.’

  Wyatt eased himself into the cockpit of the Shensu Shadow. Already he was soaking with sweat. He heard the other engines starting up, and pulled the helmet down. It was time to prove himself again.

  Out on the track, he relaxed. He forgot about the heat. All that mattered was the car, the track and the other drivers. All other thoughts vanished, it was pure concentration. Everything had to be memorised, to be used the next day. His biggest adversary now was the circuit. It could catch him unawares, break him, even kill him.

  He felt in control, but less anxious to push himself to the limit. Now he was exploring the track from an analytical perspective, preparing for the race.

  He took Bruce’s comments very seriously. He had to keep his front position from the beginning. Any dropping back would cost him dearly.

  After ten laps he roared into the pits, happy with his performance. Bruce came up next to him as he pulled off his helmet.

  ‘Nice going, Wyatt. Now relax. No one’s coming close to yesterday’s times, let alone yours.’

  ‘Ricardo?’

  ‘He’s going like a bat out of hell, but doesn’t know the car as well as you do.’

  Wyatt felt good. So far, he held the race.

  Ricardo was boiling. He could not extract more from the car. He was fighting her, not working with her. He felt the machine did not suit his style of driving. And he had never mastered the Nelson Piquet circuit - the heat and the anti-clockwise direction did not agree with him. It hammered every other driver as well, but some were better at coping with the change of direction than others.

  Every other circuit on the calendar ran clockwise, so that for this one race the forces on the driver’s body were reversed. This circuit always hammered Ricardo’s neck muscles, as it did every other driver’s, but for some reason or other it seemed to affect him more badly than the rest. He knew he was not handling the long, fast corners the way he should - and he was furious about blowing an engine the previous day.

  He came off the main straight on his tenth lap feeling more confident, pushing the Shadow hard into the curve. The corner was sharp but he was determined to get through it fast.

  Without warning, he overstepped the mark and lost control. The back of the Shadow shot round off the edge of the track. He saw the wall of tyres at the edge of the corner coming up fast. The next moment, he was into them and at a standstill.

  He eased himself out of the cockpit, surrounded by marshals with fire-extinguishers. To his horror, he saw that the front suspension was badly damaged. He threw his helmet onto the sand in anger.

  Bruce was on the scene in a matter of minutes.

  ‘I don’t believe this!’

  ‘The car - she does not handle well.’

  ‘Bullshit! You lost it.’

  ‘You dare to insult me?’

  Now de Villiers was right up close to him, squaring up to him.

  ‘If you hadn’t been such a bloody stuck-up fool, you’d have been in on the development of the Shadow from day one.’

  Ricardo went puce.

  ‘I will not drive for you!’

  He turned his back, and Bruce said steadily: ‘Chase will win this race. The press will say you lost your nerve, that you’re over the hill. And so will every other constructor. Drop out on me, and you’ll never be in the big money again.’

  It was true. Ricardo turned slowly round. ‘You fix the Shadow, I race.’

  ‘Remember we have a spare Shadow.’

  Ricardo knew what that meant - driving a car that had not been specif
ically set up for him.

  ‘How can you do this to me?’

  ‘You crashed the car, I didn’t.’

  Ricardo thought about this. It was a gamble that could go two ways. Either the car was better than the one he’d been driving, or she was worse. He saw the angry scowl on de Villiers’ face. De Villiers wanted to win; de Villiers was under pressure from his sponsors. If Ricardo didn’t drive, it would immediately put de Villiers in the losing seat as well. He hated de Villiers, but in the end, he also respected him.

  ‘All right, I drive your fucking other car.’

  Ricardo began walking back to the pits. He had no wish to talk to de Villiers any further; he would have to devote all his energies to inspecting the new car.

  Back in the pits five minutes later, he saw that Phelps had arrived. Ricardo liked the big confident American, especially Phelps’s special aura of wealth and power. Phelps was talking to Suzie von Falkenhyn, and couldn’t resist touching her every so often; it was obvious that he wanted her. Good, thought Ricardo. That would upset Wyatt.

  ‘Hi there, Ricardo - things are not going well today?’

  ‘You judge correctly, Mr Phelps.’

  ‘Jack, please.’

  They shook hands and Ricardo returned Phelps’s penetrating stare. Phelps averted his eyes and ran them over the pits, looking for Wyatt.

  ‘Where’s Chase?’

  Suzie said, ‘He’s finished for today - now he’s doing some promotional work.’

  This pleased Ricardo. Such pointless activities would wear Wyatt down before the race. Ricardo had his own attitude to promotion - he would lend his name, but not his body.

  Jack put his arm around Ricardo, who was conscious of expensive after-shave and a surprisingly taut body beneath the businessman’s shirt. The grip was not kind, it was more an extension of Jack’s power over him.

  ‘Ricardo. I can see you’re concerned about your performance here today. But you’ll have to drive faster tomorrow. I’m paying you a lot of money and I expect you to deliver. I want you and Wyatt in the number one and number two positions. Get it?’