Callum laughed and went to make himself some tea. The pills had squashed his hangover now, and he’d had too much coffee already. His crew chatted away happily behind him. The richest man who’d ever been, their boss, knew they existed and was pleased with their work. So how big is the bonus, do you think?

He sank back into a settee facing the glass wall into the M & C, giving the news streams a proper look this time and getting Apollo to summarize potential problems. It seemed the world of toxicity troubles wasn’t too dangerous today.

When he thought back to the meeting, it still seemed slightly surreal. I could have mentioned Savi, told Ainsley we’d got married. He would have congratulated me. That way there’d have been no way Security could have kicked up about it, not with him approving. Except…he’d see me as a troublemaker. Probably blow my chances of getting fast-tracked to the top.

Why doesn’t she just fucking call?

Dokal sat down beside him. “Congratulations.”

“Cheers.”

“I mean it. Ainsley does that to about three people a year.”

“Huh? He said he sees a hundred a week just like me.”

“Who’d have thought it?” She smiled softly. “Someone like that not telling the whole truth.”

“Wow!”

“Well, don’t forget us when you’re lording it over Connexion’s whole northern hemisphere operations in twenty years’ time.”

Callum turned to look at her, wondering just how far her corporate loyalty went. They’d always got on well, but…she was ambitious. And now she knew he was a favorite, she might be agreeable to some mutual backscratching. I only need some advice. “We’re at Donnington this weekend. Come along if you’ve got a spare hour. Be good to see you there again.”

Her smile was endearing; he didn’t get to see it very often. “Thanks, Cal. Is Savi going? I liked her.”

“Hands off, she’s my girlfriend.”

“Well, try and use your brain for once. She’s a keeper.”

He knew he was blushing, and he didn’t care. “Yeah, I figured that.”

—

Callum made it past the Craner Curves and throttled back into Old Hairpin. He leaned into it, and the Ducati 999 followed the track like it was a rail. You beautiful machine, you. Through Starkey’s Bridge, and he opened the throttle again. The twin-cylinder engine roared like a small rocket. The instrument panel blurred as the bike accelerated hard. He wasn’t wearing screen lenses. This was all about authenticity. He didn’t need precise readings; he felt the bike.

Slowing to take the bastard sharp McLeans turn, he was slicing close to the patch of crumbling tarmac and slowed another fraction, weaving wide. A Kawasaki ZX-17B shot past him, followed by an Aprilia RSV4 1000. “Shit!” he screamed into his helmet mic. He throttled up hard—too much for the turn and had to brake, losing even more ground.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“What’s up, Cal?” Alana asked in his headphones.

“Overtaken,” he called out in frustration.