Sweet Carolina(42)

He pitted after forty laps, took four new tires, and managed to maintain decent track position. Going into the final twenty-lap segment, Dell was in decent position to make a run for the lead. He squeezed past the last three cars between him and the race leader without incident, leaving him with a clear view of the lead car's bumper.

“Drop low in turn two,” his spotter advised.

“Roger that,” Dell said. It was a sound strategy. Stater had taken the high groove on that turn the entire race, so if Dell kept his car in the low groove, he should be able to slip underneath and take the lead.

Dell bided his time. He only needed to be in the lead for the last lap – that was the only one that counted. Fifteen laps in, he made his move. Stater went high. Dell slid low and throttled up as much as he dared. It wasn't enough. Stater came out of the turn, throttled up a fraction of a second earlier than Dell and slipped back down in front of Dell on the backstretch.

Dell cursed and nosed up on Stater's bumper – fair warning he meant business. Stater took the warning to heart, and Dell made three more futile attempts to arrest the lead. With two laps to go, Dell threw caution to the wind.

“Don't do anything stupid,” Caro warned through his headset.

Dell acknowledged her warning with one of his own. “Who's driving this car?” he asked as he cut deep and low, throttling up when reason cautioned to do the opposite. His opponent hesitated, no doubt taken by surprise at Dell's audacity. Stater recovered, recognized Dell's reckless bid and edged down the track until his rear bumper was within inches of clearing the front of Dell's car.

It was now or never. Dell pushed his car to the limit, calling Stater's bluff. The two cars jockeyed for the lead through the backstretch into turns three and four. Dell held his ground in the high-speed game of chicken. Coming out of turn four, Stater dropped low, bumping Dell onto the apron. Dell gripped the wheel tightly and retaliated by swinging back onto the track, right into the driver's side of Stater's car.

Metal ground against metal as the two cars rubbed along the front stretch toward the finish line. All he needed was an inch. A one-inch clearance to win this segment and be one of the top four in the final segment. Dell glanced to his right, but couldn't see Stater clearly. He calculated the distance in his mind and counted down silently. When he reached zero, he jerked the wheel left to disengage from the other car, and in the same instant, he throttled up. Stater did the same, but a fraction of a second too late. Dell shot forward, crossing the finish line ahead of Stater by six inches.

Dell immediately throttled down and watched as Stater shot him the finger as he sailed past him. None of it mattered now. He had the purse for winning the fourth segment, and he'd start in fourth position for the final ten-lap showdown.

“Shit, good driving, Dell,” Jeff said. “Bring her in for the mandatory pit stop.”

“Coming in,” Dell said as he took a cool down lap before turning onto pit row. He came to a stop in their designated stall. The crew rushed to do their job, readying the car to go back out for the last segment. He'd start fourth, ahead of what remained of the fifty cars that began the race. With a million at stake, everyone was pushing it, taking risks they normally wouldn't, and as a result, the final field would be about twenty-five cars. Of those, few had any chance of winning, but it wouldn't stop them from trying. With that much cash on the line, even the sanest of drivers could go a little nuts.

Some of the drivers elected to stretch their legs during the ten-minute stop, but Dell stayed in the car. That didn't stop the reporters from jabbing microphones and cameras in the window. He expected the questions after the way he took the segment lead away from Stater, who was now regulated to one of the twenty or so also-rans starting in the back of the pack. Dell answered their questions, ignoring the way they tried to get his reaction to his Madman nickname.

The reporters got their sound bites and moved on to someone else. Dell focused on the final laps. This is where the gloves came off. The four winners of the previous segments would duel it out for the prize money. This was pure racing. No rules. Just drive, and do it better than the other three. Dell fired the engine on cue and took his place in the second row, behind the pace car. Two laps around, the pace car would drop out, and the green flag would fly.

“Go get 'em!” His spotter's unnecessary words echoed Dell's thoughts as he throttled up and easily moved into third. The first and second place cars widened the gap, but Dell was on a mission to win. He closed the gap, but the drivers were running two-wide to prevent him from making a move. Dell counted down the laps in his head as he kept pace with the neck-and-neck leaders. Both cars belonged to the same owner, a man known for the nasty tactics he encouraged his drivers to employ on the track.