he was boxed in by the Honda directly in front and the Toyota crowding them to the right. He said, “They are going to stop us.” He added, “I am very sorry.”
Brodie rolled down his window, lifted the Glock, and aimed it at the driver next to them. The guy had both hands on the wheel, but if he moved either hand out of view, Brodie was prepared to give his car new red upholstery.
Señor Mustache finally noticed the gun aimed at his head, and he slammed on his brakes, skidding to a stop as they whipped past him.
“Go,” said Brodie.
Luis cut into the right-hand lane and floored it. The lead car tried to pull the same trick, veering back into the right lane and slowing down. But this game didn’t work with only one car, and Luis cut back into the left lane and sped past him.
The lead guy in the Honda floored it, keeping pace with the Escalade. He started drifting into their lane. This bastard was persistent.
Brodie looked over at the guy. He appeared only a little older than his buddy, and just as scrawny. But he had a nasty and determined look about him, and something told Brodie he wouldn’t scare as easily as his accomplice.
The Honda drifted farther into their lane, and Luis, who was obviously not trained in tactical driving, eased off the gas and fell back. Meanwhile, the Toyota was starting to catch up.
Brodie kept his eyes on the driver next to them. He had a clean shot, but he also had an informal rule of trying not to kill anyone within an hour of landing in a new country, so he turned to Luis and said, “Run him off the road.”
Luis looked over at Brodie, hesitated, then mumbled what sounded like a prayer and cut the wheel hard to the right. The Escalade’s right bumper slammed into the Honda, smashing its left signal light. The car careened toward the tunnel wall.
Their pursuer quickly corrected course and skidded back toward them, slamming back into their car. Luis lost control for a moment, getting perilously close to the tunnel wall. There wasn’t much room for error in the narrow lanes, and Luis cut the wheel to the right again and slammed into the Honda, their bumpers grinding against each other as they hurtled through the tunnel.
Luis, who seemed to be gaining some confidence, gave the guy one more good shove, this one hard enough to send the Honda slamming into the right side of the tunnel. The car fishtailed, its rear veering to the left and clipping the back of the Escalade as Luis sped past him.
Brodie turned around in time to catch the Honda spinning out and coming to a stop astride both lanes. The trailing Toyota skidded to a halt, barely avoiding a T-bone collision with his accomplice.
Luis gave a victorious whoop as the Escalade roared out of the tunnel and onto a bridge that crossed over a shallow valley. They were still in the western foothills, but now they had a view of the high-rises of downtown Caracas in the distance.
Brodie kept his eyes on the rearview.
Luis said, “They will not follow.”
Brodie handed the pistol to Luis, who slipped it into his holster.
Brodie asked, “This ever happen to you before?”
“I was robbed two times just outside the terminal while picking up passengers. But nothing like this. But the rules are new every day now.” He added, “No rules.”
“One rule, Luis,” said Brodie. “The survival of the fittest.”
“Sí.”
“You did good.”
Taylor, who had said nothing so far, commented, “I think we could have outrun them without the demolition derby.”
Brodie replied, “No backseat driving.”
They began to see some slapdash structures of painted concrete amid the greenery as they drove toward the western edge of the city. They approached another tunnel that cut through the hills, and above the mouth of the tunnel were vibrantly painted concrete houses that climbed up the hillside like towers of haphazardly stacked shoeboxes. A mural of Hugo Chávez’ face was painted on a three-story façade, his thick, grinning features attempting—like all the brightly colored houses—to slap a cheerful patina over this tropical slum.
“Barrios,” said Luis. He pointed to the mural. “And there is the slumlord, who is dead now, thanks to God. But they still worship this man like a saint, and who can blame them? He at least pretended to care about the poor.”
Brodie said, “Pretending is important if you are a politician.”