'Is he still following us?'
Marianne's words caused me to glance in the rear mirror.
'Yeah.'
'Dear God,' she whispered.
The killer had been given two options, right or left. He'd chosen to continue left. I'd have preferred it if he'd gone after Seagram and his passenger rather than me and mine. I was better fixed to protect my charge than Seagram was, but I'd rather have got Marianne well away from harm before turning on the bastard and showing him just who he was messing with.
Speed was my best weapon.
I pushed the Porsche up to one hundred and fifty miles an hour. Just a little way behind, I saw that the Lincoln matched me for speed. Maybe it even gained a little. The driver hung his hand out the window. I saw the muzzle flash, but the bark of the gun was lost as we sped on.
I pressed Marianne down. 'Unclip your belt,' I told her. 'Get down in the footwell. Undo your vest and pull it over your head if you can.'
The trunk and seats wouldn't stop the bullets, but I guessed that the shooter would aim that little bit higher, shooting where he'd expect a hit. Comparatively safer than I was, Marianne would be very unlucky if a bullet found her. But that possibility wasn't out of the question.
The gun fired again, and sparks jumped along the door frame next to my elbow. I couldn't return fire, didn't have the angle. All trying to twist round and firing would achieve was a deceleration, possibly a high-speed collision with the bollards on my right, then a flipping, rolling, body-tearing wreck that would do more harm than the killer's bullets ever could.
I concentrated instead on pushing the car to the limits of performance. Technical specification of the Porsche Boxster boasts a top speed edging 160 mph, but I saw the odometer register 165, then 170, then 175. But the RPM needle was hovering dangerously in the red zone. Pushing the vehicle to these extremes could wreck the engine, but then again, so could the killer's bullets.
The road was preformed concrete, and every so often a seam projected above the surface, causing a bumping noise to sound from the tyres. Rocketing along at high speed, the bumping rattled like a drum roll. The accompanying ting of bullets off metal and Marianne's yowls of fear made for an ungodly timpani.
Approaching the southern extremes of Neptune Island, I made out the sweep of the bridge that took the road across the Waterway. It looked like a humpbacked whale had breached the depths and would at any second flip up its gargantuan tail and send us flying into space. I pressed the Porsche on.
The Lincoln couldn't match the Porsche for acceleration, but the heavier sedan was gaining along the straight. There was a slight sway on, the way it went from one side of the carriageway to the other, but that was more to do with the killer driving with only one hand on the wheel. He continued to shoot. This time he sent a volley of five bullets. Two of them lifted concrete shards from the road ahead, but three of them impacted the Porsche. None hit me, but I snatched a glance at Marianne. She looked up at me from beneath her Kevlar shield with big, round eyes.
'Hold tight,' I told her.
Then I stomped the brake.
The Lincoln was the much heavier vehicle, but I was counting on the killer's reaction to do more damage than the Porsche could. True to my expectation, he swerved. The front fender clipped the back of the Porsche, lifting us from the road for the space of a very long two seconds or more. I felt weightless, and a tiny portion of my mind expected the car to flip over and disintegrate in a billion pieces. Then the rear tyres found traction again, and I pushed the Porsche forwards, gaining distance on the killer, who had to struggle to control the Lincoln.
The daring manoeuvre bought us only a few seconds' respite from the bullets. But it had slowed the pursuit somewhat. We were now only averaging 140 mph.
The bridge swept upwards, then curved to the right. There was no meridian on the bridge, only collapsible plastic markers. A U-Haul truck went by on the other side. The driver swerved in dismay. Distractedly I wondered what he'd think of the Lincoln behind, with the gun poking past the door frame and raining 9 mm Parabellum ammo at me.
On my right, all that protected us from launching into the sea was a waist-high barrier. Every so often along the way, I saw evidence of where other cars had clipped the barrier, gouging paint but causing little other damage. I doubted they were doing more than twice the average speed when they'd collided, though. I swung the Porsche to the left, straddling the central markers of the two southbound lanes.
Behind us, I saw the Lincoln roaring towards our back end. When I braked, the killer had been forced to control his vehicle. Now he had decided that it was our turn. He rammed the Lincoln into the rear end of the Porsche, jamming us forwards. He rammed us again. I could feel some of the traction go from beneath me. I dropped a gear, pressed the throttle, surged ahead, taking control again. In response the gun came out of the window once more and another bullet went through the Porsche. The windscreen had had enough. It exploded, some of the glass collapsing inside so that I got a lap full of tiny, grainy squares. I closed my eyes to avoid the splinters and glass particles I felt on my skin.
It was little more than an exaggerated blink. But when I opened my eyes once more, the Lincoln was surging up alongside the Porsche on my left. It was scattering the plastic markers up the meridian as though they were ten pins, flattening them or throwing them into the air. I swung the Porsche at the Lincoln, but all that achieved was to lock us together momentarily. There was a squeal of buckling metal.
I got my first look at the man behind the wheel. I'd been correct about the pale smear on his chin. The guy had the face of a ghost. Or some other more evil, ethereal creature. His thin blond hair knitted a pattern over his features from the wind driving in through the open window, and I only caught a snatch of his eyes. Pale blue slits. But it was enough to see that he was as psychopathic as every other nutcase who killed for fun.
He nodded at me, as if in recognition.
Here, I thought, do you recognise this?
I lifted my SIG Sauer left-handed and fired at him, unloading half the clip as fast as I could pull the trigger. The noise inside the Porsche was deafening. I didn't hear my rounds smack his car, but I saw his windscreen implode. Sparks and particles of metal flew off the bonnet. Something burst in the engine and there was a gout of steam. No blood, unfortunately.
The Lincoln dipped on its suspension. He was braking. Then he was behind me and I couldn't see to shoot any more. A quick glance at the odometer showed me I'd decelerated almost forty miles an hour. But we were still travelling at over one hundred. It was insane. Something else — our collision had taken us back towards the barrier on my right. The wing mirror was snatched off and went tinkling into the darkness behind us. I jinked left, to get away from the metal barrier.
Now the Lincoln was nosing up to my bumper. He nudged the Porsche. We slewed. Almost had me with the PIT manoeuvre police patrol vehicles occasionally employ to stop fugitive vehicles. Unfortunately for him — very fortunately for us — his vehicle hadn't been in the optimum position to spin us out. But it did make the Porsche's back end swerve towards the central median, blasting more of the plastic markers out of commission, the front end juddering for traction on the concrete.
Marianne wasn't the only one yelling. I probably had the edge on anger, though. I grappled with the steering, righting the Porsche, but the Lincoln was now alongside me, and this time the killer was directly in line with me. In his left hand I saw a Beretta 90-two. In the split second it took to register the make and model of the gun I also calculated my chances of avoiding the bullet aimed at my skull. Zero or nil. Take your pick.
He mouthed something at me, but I didn't catch it.
In one of those slow-motion moments of ultra-clarity, I saw his index finger caress the trigger. In reflex I started to duck. But, even in slow motion, the bullet wouldn't register.
26
He'd lost count of the times he'd been back and forth over and under this selfsame bridge in the last day, but Dantalion had a feeling that this wouldn't be the last. Even after he finished Hunter and his unseen passenger, he
