Dell fought for control and prayed no one would hit him as he spun in dizzying circles. His car came to a halt at the bottom of the turn, untouched, but mangled from his close encounter with the wall.
“Caution's out,” Earl informed him.
“Fuck that.” Dell shifted into gear and throttled up. Warner had fucked with him one too many times. It ended here. Now.
If Dell was out of the race, Warner was going out too.
“Damnit, Dell, pit. Now.” Ray's usually calm voice was anything but.
“Shit, Dell. Pit,” Earl entreated. “Fix the car, then we'll beat Warner.”
Dell ignored both men and steered what was left of his car back on the track. He racked up a half-dozen penalties as he sped around the track, passing the cars slowed under the yellow caution flag. Warner wasn't going to get by with it, not this time. This time he would pay.
Turn four. Perfect. In the aftermath of Dell's spin, Warner wormed his way into the front of the pack and now cruised sedately three positions behind the pace car. Dell caught the look of surprise on Warner's face as he traded paint with him. Satisfaction brought a smile to Dell's face right before he wrenched the wheel to the right and drove Warner's car hard into the wall.
Dell eased off the throttle and dropped behind Warner. Warner over-corrected and his car dropped toward the bottom of the track.
“Oh, no you don't,” Dell mumbled as he cut low, accelerating in time to ram Warner in the rear left panel, sending him back up the track toward the wall. Dell followed, keeping his right bumper tight against Warner's car, pushing.
Warner hit the wall again and spun. Dell throttled back, but not in time. Warner clipped him and sent him spinning down the embankment in turn four. Metal shrieked against metal. Dell jolted as one car rammed him on the left. Another plowed into him from the right. Smoke filled the interior, blinding him. Not that it mattered. His car was destroyed, steering a luxury no longer available. Dell braced for impact as his car careened out of control, spinning in circles like a giant, lethal top.
Ray's voice in his ear broke the unnatural silence. “You okay?”
Dell considered the question. He was alive. He mentally took stock of his appendages. All present and accounted for. “Yeah. I'm okay,” he said. “Getting out now.”
He unhooked the six-point seat restraint and reached up to disconnect his helmet from the communications and cooling systems. A moment later, he stood beside his mangled car. He'd come to a stop on the grass, smack-dab in the middle of the giant painted letters that spelled out “Daytona.”
Before he took his helmet off, the crash team arrived and hustled him into the back of an ambulance. As they shut the door, he caught a glimpse of his car. Well, fuck. That wasn't going to go over well. Even if it were a piece of shit, it cost a fortune to build. Turning it into scrap metal ten laps into the first, and arguably biggest race of the season wasn't going to win him any points with the team owner.
* * * *
“You're a menace, C.J. Your daddy must be turning in his grave.”
Dell Wayne leaned all six feet of his aching body against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest, and fists clenched as the power behind NASCAR stewed over this latest infraction. Why the hell they thought he'd care if his old man spun in his grave, he couldn't fathom. He just wanted to get this over with, and go. The race was over, for him, at least. The Daytona 500 would go down as a DNF – Did Not Finish. All because of Dickhead Warner.
“Dell. My name is Dell,” he reminded the old man.
“Caudell Wayne, Junior don't you get smart with me, young man. I've known you since you were in diapers, and I'll damned well call you whatever I want. Your daddy called you C.J., and as far as I'm concerned, that's your name.”
Dell held his tongue. What did a man have to do to prove himself? Apparently, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do. He'd be Caudell Junior for the rest of his life. He'd never measure up to his old man in the eyes of these people, just like he never measured up in his old man's eyes. What the hell? He shook his head. Why did he even try?
“What do you want from me?”
“We want to know what happened out there today. Are you trying to kill yourself, C.J.? Or are you trying to kill the other drivers?”
He flinched on the inside. His fire suit might as well have been wool. His skin itched, and he couldn't wait to get out of it, the fire suit, or his skin, either one, and out of this place – away from the pity and disapproving looks. “It was an accident,” he answered. “That asshole, Warner, clipped my bumper and sent me into the wall.”
“And instead of pitting, you went after him. You destroyed his car, and damned near killed him. If this was a few years ago, before the new safer barriers, you would have killed him.”