A race of two worlds. Chapter 18. Part 2

      This is a fictional story, no crossovers with real events should be sought. This is a continuation of "Race of Two Worlds" by Nikita Saveliev for the readers of F1News.ru... Chapter 18. The denouement. Part Two Here everything remained unchanged - along stretched a long chain of dejected people in civilian clothes. It was obvious that many of them were tired of being stuck without anything happening. Norman did not deny himself a pleasure: quietly approached the guard of their box and slapped him on the shoulder. He made sure that the expression "jump from surprise" was not invented out of thin air. The cop, recognizing Norman, shook his head dazedly, swore silently and let the racer pass without further ado. In the paddock, too, everything was in place - trailers, trucks, cars, containers with equipment, tanks with fuel, tents, but not a single soul. Norman walked alone. Somewhere on the ground there were tools, plates of uneaten food on tables, liquor in glasses, and cigarettes smoldering in ashtrays. The wind lazily blew the sheets of newspaper. Footsteps echoed in a rumbling sound. It was as if he were in a ghost town. Like a recent Richard Widmark western that Norman had seen before he left for Europe, with something else about the law in the title. And, as luck would have it, the engines were silent, and the noise of the crowd was not coming this way. Good thing it wasn't a long walk to the administration building, because it was getting a little uncomfortable. Here was a reminder that Norman was not alone in the world. A cheerful cigarette smoke wafted from a parked bank truck and a patrol car, the cops serenely on duty. Without attracting undue attention, Norman walked around the building. Where's the back door? Aha! Norman opened the door, listened. It was quiet. He entered, saw a small vestibule, beyond which lay a corridor with faceless doors on either side. So, where was he? I think the stairs to the second floor are that way. Norman was beginning to get gradually angry with the inspector and his charades-not to say so directly, as a comrade! He had started some intrigues of the courtiers on the same spot. Snorting unhappily, the racer went up to the second floor. Was it just me, or do I hear voices? Far away, you can't make out the words. Is there a British cop in there? Just in case, Norman took a cautious step - it was always better to over-salt than under-salt. The sounds died down. But one of the doors was ajar. Why are there people here? Everyone had been told to leave the area. What if Rob wasn't kidding? Norman's footsteps were silent now, the instincts he'd learned years ago. On the way out, he sighed sadly: "You're up to your ears in confusion again, Norman. Why can't we run the race like normal people?" There was clearly someone behind the imposing door: there were rustling sounds, a couple of slurred words, an inaudible groan. Norman crept close to the door, wondering how he could get a better look inside. Footsteps sounded, and Norman ducked behind the door, but it was too late: he was almost nose to nose with a man in a good suit, unknown to him. Norman had expected to see anything but such a ridiculous combination. The unknown man seemed to be confused for a second. Who are you? - Norman was the first to come to his senses. And you are? - The man asked his question almost at the same time. Norman Grade. Racer. What are you doing here? And you are? No one's allowed in here. Exactly. I'm police. "Leave this room immediately, sir," came a confident voice with a metallic tone. The man was a complete stranger to Norman. Old enough to be a cop, but he didn't look like a police chief. And there was something odd about the voice, too; the voice sounded suspiciously familiar, but the locals didn't talk like that. I'm looking for a man..." "You have no business here, sir," the stranger said, raising his voice. "At least give me your name," Norman asked. "I'll show you some papers, and you'll get out of here." "Help me, please." The man was still clutching the tire reverently, so Norman stretched out his arms to take it. Just then the tire flew right into his face. Had it not been for the lightning-fast reaction of the racer, the tire would have hit him in the forehead, but so he had time to put out his elbows and beat back the improvised projectile. Without further ado, the sly bastard lunged at Norman with a clear intention to stun him with a blow to his cervical vertebrae, but he attacked the wrong man - at the last moment Norman managed to twist around, but still got hit on the collarbone. Oh, shit, that hurt! He almost got it, you lucky bastard. Norman jumped aside, gaining space to maneuver, and his opponent rushed after him. The second blow struck him on the shoulder, and Norman managed to dodge the third. And then he kicked the villain in the kneecap - maybe not very fair, but effective, instantly discouraging the enemy to continue the attack. Norman had enough time to deliver an excellent uppercut to the chin. He should have searched the man, but Norman felt in his gut that there was someone else lurking behind the door. And something with a gun. No amount of hand-to-hand combat would save him. Run for the stairs - they'll make holes. There's a window down the hall. Breaking glass with your body isn't the best option either. We're not in the movies. But we had to make a quick decision. Norman unbuckled the strap of his massive wristwatch, took a good swing, and threw it through the window pane. It hit, of course. It rang out with a bang! It was a pity, but there was nothing better. The effect was not long in coming, for a thin silhouette flew out from behind the door and was just back of Norman, holding in his outstretched hand an unmistakable gun. The racer took a step forward, knocked the gun out of his hand with one hand, and prepared to strike a powerful blow at the next villain with the other. At the very last moment Norman, recognizing his adversary, held up his hand, and an astonished cry burst from his throat: "Jane?" Norman? - Amazingly enough, it was the assistant director of the race track. Not her twin sister. You?! How are you... here? - To say the driver was stunned was an understatement. I--" Jane looked up at him with huge eyes. - There's no easy way to explain it. It hurt... I'm sorry... But what's going on here? - Norman looked from Jane, who was clutching her bruised arm, to the lifeless guy, to the ridiculous wheel. We need to call for help, now! It's a terrorist! What are you doing here? Where's Robbie? No time, Norman. Keep him safe. He's very dangerous. I need help! Explain-- Stay here. I'll get the police. Jane pushed the racing driver away and ran down the corridor. Norman's head was spinning - too many surprises today. But it wasn't over yet. Another actor appeared from the open door. It was more like falling out. Robert staggered out, one hand on the doorjamb, the other pressed to the back of his head. Brown blood trickled through his fingers. Where is she? - the inspector wheezed. Jane? She's gone downstairs. Get her, quick! Tell me what's going on! - Norman exploded. It's her. It's all her. It's all what? It's all her. Are you all right? Did you get hit?! Where? Never mind. Go after her. Why would I do that? Who is this guy? Norman, you can't be such an asshole! - Robert cried out and then hissed in pain. - It was Jane's idea! You're the cretin! - Norman took offense. - Jane can't be in league with terrorists. Cut the crap! What terrorists! - Robert yelled. - There are no terrorists! == To be continued...