Chapter Text
It’s hard to describe the layers of class at a Patek Phillippe new model release party in Manhattan without seeming conceited, so George Russell would never really try.
If he had to sum up his favorite parts, he would say practiced P.R. phrases – but that he really did mean! – like that his private green room was the absolute perfect temperature. He added, in that light British lilt, “It’s like the hospitality team are mind readers, honestly!” Or like the caviar potato chip appetizer was the best take on it that he ever had the delight to try, and he had sampled quite a few over the last year. Or he would say that he loved the fan gifts waiting for him in the green room more than anything else in the world: it always meant so much more to him that kids would take their time to draw pictures of him and make him little souvenirs from their hometowns.
Okay, he didn’t say that, not at the party Patek Phillippe brought him to and showered him with gifts for, of course. No matter how much he thought it, no matter how much his face began to hurt from smiling through pics with aging billionaires he couldn’t remember the name of, no matter how much he would toss out every particle of foie gras in the building if it meant getting to go back to the hotel and eat room service pancakes with Kimi. No, he couldn't say any of that, not as the actual face of the watch manufacturer's winter publicity campaign. He would probably have to stick to saying that they are unmatched as far as quality goes, which Lewis had him repeat in the car ride over from the hotel until they came up with the most perfectly convincing cadence. That they are the premiere innovators in dial design, that even the buckle on the leather bands had impeccable detail, that—
Thankfully, he didn’t have to say much more, because the party was interrupted by an explosion from the green room, with George just twenty feet away.
Je hebt geen trauma is what Max Verstappen says to himself every morning when he wakes up at five A.M. on the dot. Max does not have trauma. He just likes to wake up early.
He likes to be up before the sun bathes the cozy neutrals of Daniel Ricciardo’s guest room in warm light. He likes to be up before his body is done sleeping. And he especially likes to be up before he can start thinking too hard.
This day, February 24, is like no other the past three weeks. When his phone alarm blares, Max pushes himself up off the fluffy ivory duvet. Most people would probably find that blanket comforting beyond belief, wrapping themselves up like a luxurious cocoon in its feathers, and no doubt that was why Daniel picked it.
But when Max falls asleep at night, he forces himself to stay on top of it. The room is too warm for him, he insists, despite the blasting A.C. It has everything to do with the Australian heat and nothing to do with depriving himself of comfort. Because that would be a sign of trauma. And remember, Max does not have trauma.
Max had been staying there with his former colleague (Daniel would say something about them being “friends” but who asked him?) from Wolff Security Services, Incorporated. Some would call it a vacation. Max would call it that. It was just using up his constantly rolled-over vacation days.
It certainly wasn’t what his boss Toto would call it (something about mandatory paid mental health leave, but who asked him, too?)
He goes on a run of minimum five miles around the heavy woods immediately surrounding Daniel’s estate. This is a six-day-a-week regimen. One day a week he allows himself to speed walk instead and give his body something like a break.
He wouldn’t take breaks he had his own choice, but a doctor said something about it being an absolute necessity, a choice Max’s body would make for him if he didn’t do it willingly. And at this point you might expect Max would say, Who asked him?
But Max had, since in the week before the January incident that definitely did not cause any trauma, Max woke up one morning and his throbbing legs gave out from right under him. They didn’t respond to his Dutch curses, and they didn’t respond to begging and pleading. They only responded to him giving in and laying there (continuing to curse, mind you) for about twenty minutes.
One could theorize that crying might have worked on his legs too, the kind of desperate, relieved crying of a deeply traumatized man. But remember, Max does not have trauma.
After the runs, it’s right into Daniel Ricciardo’s private gym for some stretching, followed by weight training, followed by more stretching. Then there’s an ice bath.
Then he goes to the kitchen to prepare something like hard boiled eggs with a minimal amount of salt, something easy with protein.
All of this goes in exactly that order, and it normally brings him up to nine A.M. or so. Then comes the hardest part of Max’s vacation days by far: the hour or so of loneliness before Daniel wakes up. Once he does, Max usually lets himself be led to whatever kooky activity Dan had planned for the day – horseback riding, house parties, hikes along the beach.
Max doesn’t particularly like these activities, but it’s better than the total hellscape of being at rest, alone with his thoughts. He can’t imagine what it’s like to live that way for more than an hour a day. You know, like a traumatized person would. Because remember, Max doesn’t have trauma.
It’s just that he enjoys Daniel’s endless chattering, his observations of nature, his little vocal stims and utterances. Anything is better than the images that pop through Max’s head when he’s by himself with no real activity. No matter how loud he blasts his earbuds. No matter how hard he scrubs the pan. No matter how bad it hurt that one time, yesterday, actually, February 23rd, when he just couldn’t get one image of Christian’s final gasps out of his head, so he actually banged himself on the head with the pan he had just used to make an spinach egg white omelet. He saw stars and felt a small drop of blood roll down his cheek from his eyebrow. He nursed his wound in the bathroom, pressing paper towel to his forehead with a shaky hand. He fought hard against the tears forming in his blue eyes, but when Daniel woke up that morning, he must have heard the noise and followed Max.
Daniel wordlessly opened the door to the bathroom. With the mercy of his silence, he took the paper towel away, put Neosporin on the wound, and put a small band-aid over it. No words, just a couple concerned sighs, his brown eyes wide with worry.
And Max managed to wait until Daniel left that morning to let a single tear slip down his face. After all, that’s what strong people do.
And after all, Max doesn’t have trauma.
He repeated this phrase in his head as he wrapped up his run, slowing to a light jog as he came up the final hill towards the sliding glass doors of the gym.
But today was different. It was barely 5:45am, and Daniel was standing in front of the doors. He held a mug of coffee in one hand, and he waved with two fingers of the other, the rest of which held the keys to his McLaren.
An energized grin was spreading over his face, white teeth taking over the tan skin and stubble. At his feet was a long gray plastic case with a cartoony symbol of an axe spray painted on it. And somehow Max knew that on February 24th, his morning routine was about to be permanently interrupted.
“Why would you name these?” Max propped his sunglasses on the top of his head so he could get a better look at the gleaming metal of the axe in his hand. He sat Daniel’s case of axes on his lap like a baby and inspected the weapons.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Daniel kept his eyes on the road. “They’re beautiful. Beautiful things deserve a name.”
“What’s this one again? Bessie?”
“Bessie is biggest. That’s Daniel, Jr.”
“Is Daniel Jr your favorite?”
“Nonsense! I love my children equally!”
Max wanted to ask if all of Daniel’s impressive array of weapons were considered his children. But he already imagined they were. Leave it to a man like Dan to consider his Colt 1861 Navy revolver on the same level as his beloved golden retriever Liam, to value his set of finely polished stainless steel shuriken as much as his white stallion, Logan.
“Why are you taking me somewhere with your children and not telling me where?”
“I don’t want to—I’m not good at, like—I don’t know. I just like surprises!”
“How were you a body guard for so many years and still such a bad liar?”
Daniel had to laugh at that as he pulled the car off the main road and onto a dirty path. His giggle vibrated as the car struggled over the uneven path. “I was more of the ‘body’ than the ‘guard’ I guess.”
Max ran his hands over the wood of the handle of the axe, mostly to avoid the urge to look over at Daniel’s hands. Even resting on the steering wheel, his left wrist had a slight tremor, the pale pink and white lines of surgery scars. They both remembered the devastating surprise injuries Daniel got protecting a young tech C.E.O. client named Oscar Piastri. He was Daniel’s most beloved of his clients by far, which was probably why Daniel threw himself in front of the speeding car of a rival tech leader to save him. Remembering Daniel’s early forced retirement was part of what usually kept Max focused when on an assignment. Which made the events in January all the more confusing…
Almost as confusing as what was waiting for them in a grassy clearing at the end of the road. A shiny red Ferrari hybrid. Beyond that, several wooden boards with hastily painted targets. Next to the car, a black leather briefcase. And a man.
As they slowed to a stop, Daniel waved at the man standing in the middle of the clearing. Max didn’t know much about rich people’s fashion beyond the episodes of Succession that Dan decided they should binge-watch together. What little he knew, he knew this man was the epitome of comfortable quiet luxury. You’d think they were on a runway, not in some overgrown meadow an hour-plus outside of Perth.
With no hesitation, Daniel got out of the car and went to greet the intimidating man, caped in folds of black cashmere and wool, in a coat of elaborate structure. The man took off his Ray-Bans and reached a black gloved hand to shake Daniel’s hand. He smiled as Daniel ignored his hand and forced them into a bear hug.
As he smiled, a glimmer caught Max’s eye, even as he sat in the car. A small rhinestone stud in his nose. Despite himself, Max felt a small wave of self-consciousness roll through his body: he was capable of dressing nice! So why didn’t Daniel tell him to wear something beyond a Wolff Security branded windbreaker and joggers? He’d have to gain power in this interaction -- whatever it was about -- some other way.
Daniel and the man chatted for a few seconds, and then Daniel gestured to the car. He turned to Max in the car and shouted, “Get out of the car, weirdo!”
Max obeyed, eyes not leaving the stranger. He did not put down the axe to get out of the car.
The stranger just smiled wider, eyeing the axe. “You must be Max. And you must be … axe.”
This made Daniel giggle wildly, but Max made sure to maintain his stoic expression. After all, a straight face was one of his top talents as a bodyguard, and he wasn’t about to let a little vacation interfere with that. “And you are… a friend of Daniel, I presume?”
“An old friend, yes. And hopefully, a friend of yours soon. Or a business partner, rather. I’m Lewis Hamilton.”
Max looked toward the closest wooden target, already calculating what he would need to do with the flick of his wrist to nail it. “You’ve been misinformed. I’m on vacation.”
“I’m afraid I have all the information I need. You see, your boss and I go way back. Even further than him and Daniel, and him and you, and just about any other foot soldier he’s got working around the world. I asked him for the best guard he had. And he did tell me indeed that the best guard he had was on leave at the moment.”
Now Max took a glance around the field. No trees for a few miles back, so not many opportunities for threats to hide. The grass was too short for them to crawl in without being spotted right away. He supposed there could be a couple land mines here and there, but it was unlikely given how little dirt was on Lewis’s shoes. And perhaps the least likely possibility of all: that Daniel would set Max up. Max was pretty sure his brain didn’t even work like that, didn’t even register how a betrayal would benefit him.
“Relax. I’m not here to corner you. This isn’t my last resort.”
Max focused in on Lewis’s dark eyes. “What is your last resort?”
“Pulling a star out of the public eye just when he has the most to offer a world. Which would also mean bringing this back to the bank where it belongs.” Now Lewis tapped the black briefcase with one suede loafer. “All one hundred thousand American dollars. And that’s just the advance.”
Max’s heart rate picked up until he forced it back to resting. He only had one other six figure solo job. And that ended in January. “So if Toto told you I’m not open for work right now, why are you here?”
“He told me I was welcome to visit Australia to persuade you myself. And that if it worked, you were welcome to return to work early.”
Max didn’t laugh so much as he let out a breath through his nose. So his theory was right: that Toto was only concerned for Max’s mental health when it meant his bottom line was at risk. And if this Lewis Hamilton had enough money to cover the risk, it was no longer a concern. Good thing there was nothing wrong with Max’s mental health. “How much total?”
“I was thinking an extra ten K per month on the job.”
“How many months?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Meaning?”
Lewis leaned in to talk, as if there was anyone else nearby other than dragonflies and Daniel, who had grown so bored with the conversation that he was sitting on the ground tying grass stalks into a rope of some kind. “We received a series of threatening letters without a solid source. Then there was a bomb in a watch at a party and—”
“Were you harmed?”
Lewis paused, then his smile returned. “I think you misunderstand. I’m not hiring you for me.”
“Who, then?”
“I manage George Russell.” Max's eyes just looked around again, as if the field would elaborate on who that was. Lewis’s smile changed shape. An extra glimmer. “You haven’t heard of him? The former actor from Yabba Dabba? Now a philanthropist? Head of the Russell Foundation?”
“And model,” Daniel added from his seat on the ground. His grass chain had an impressive series of knots. “Very fancy.”
Max shrugged. “I don’t know about all that.”
Lewis nodded, rubbing his expertly trimmed goatee. “Where are you from, Max? I really like your accent.”
“Belgium,” truth be told, Max grew up in more than one place; his childhood was scattered, fast, and violent, but Lewis didn’t need to know a lick of that.
“I’ve been. I loved it. Where in—”
“Sorry, I don’t want to be rude, but I’d like to get to the point here.” Max took a step back from Lewis. He aligned himself perfectly with the closest target board without taking his eyes off the man in front of him, whose smile faded as Max talked. “You have a rich celebrity client, and I’ve never covered a celebrity in my life. You don’t even know how long the job is going to be, so you could be paying me thousands of dollars a week for as long as this George person lives. And you know I was put on leave. Why not work with anyone else? Toto must have told you about Sergio. The most experienced man we have.”
Without missing a beat, Max turned sharply and tossed the axe in his hand. It hit the target almost perfectly, a mere couple inches off the center. Lewis nodded again, impressed. “Well, clearly you’re skilled.”
“You know who else could do this?” Max stepped toward the case, picked up another axe, and chucked it toward the next further target, all in one fluid motion. Again, just barely left of center. “A new recruit he has. Hadjar. His aim is better than mine and he’s been at this half as long.”
“I’m not just looking for physical skills. We have no idea who is threatening George. We need someone to help us figure it out. You’re the only one who Toto said is the whole package.”
Max readied the last axe. Okay, so Lewis was on to something. Max knew he was smart, fast, strong, focused. Maybe not a genius of any kind, but as he glanced out the corner of his eye to Daniel, who was now rolling around in the grass, he had to admit that he might be a cut above the other employees in one or two different ways…
And he was also not immune to flattery. Or money. “Twelve thousand a month.”
Lewis tilted his head back to laugh. But then he quickly locked eyes again with Max. “Hit that third target over yonder and you’ve got a deal.”
“Sure. Do me a favor?”
“I’m listening.”
“Go up to it and knock it down.”
Daniel started to get up from the grass toward the target, but Lewis just held out his hand to stop him, gently pulled up his flared pants with his gloved hands, and started toward it himself. His lax gait gave Max just enough time to perfect his shot.
Lewis put his hand on the board and looked over his shoulder. “Sure you’re not gonna hit me instead?”
Daniel looked frantically between them, his head darting back and forth so fast his dark curls flopping around struggled to keep up. “Max…”
“Trust me,” Max said.
Lewis took a deep breath and pushed the board over.
Max threw the axe, curving his arm. The trajectory curved too. And it hit the board smack in the middle before both hit the ground.
Lewis looked down, mouth agape, at the wood chips now on his nice suede shoes. “Shit, man.”
Daniel clapped once. “I didn’t know you could do that! So cool. I need to come out here and practice with my axes more often.”
Max allowed himself a smile. “I prefer moving targets.” He looked over at Daniel, who had used his new surge of energy to start jumping rope with his little grassy creation. “Will you teach me how to do ties like that before I leave town?”
“Yeah if you teach me how to aim like that!”
Lewis had made his way back over to them, brushing off his outfit. “Anticipating tying a lot of knots, are you?”
“I’d just like to be ready for anything.”
Lewis opened the door to his Ferrari, leaving the briefcase behind. “George is a celebrity. Not a world leader. Secure the perimeter of his estate, figure out who’s sending the letters, and we’ll take care of it from there. A man named Charles will be reaching out via email today with a contract.”
And with that, Lewis was off.
Max huffed. “Who do you think ‘we’ is?”
Daniel was jumping through the field, picking up the axes. He called back to Max, “I think he has like a whole entourage.”
Max picked up the briefcase and started back toward Daniel’s car. “I bet you half of what’s in here that the letters are coming from one of them.”