The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,181

be under attack the whole way.

He kept accelerating, back up to a hundred. This section of the road was a long, sweeping curve through woodland – with a speed limit of only fifty. More traffic ahead. His gaze flicked between the rapidly approaching tail lights and the blue strobes in the mirror. The cars ahead were reasonably spaced out . . .

Adam steeled himself – then pushed the pedal down, committing himself to the run.

He pulled into the right-hand lane, whipping past a car on the inside before swinging sharply back to the left to round another vehicle. No sooner was he past than he dived back to the right, barely a foot ahead of the car he had just overtaken. A horn sounded in anger.

Faster. More red lights rushed at him. Back to the left, foot dabbing the brake before he veered sharply across to the inside lane once more. Mirror. The cars behind were responding to the emergency lights, pulling over to leave the outside lane clear.

The lead SUV closed again, his slalom costing him precious momentum. Gear down, foot down. The rev counter wavered in the red zone. He swung past another couple of vehicles, cutting his turns as close as he dared. Another horn blast, a car weaving as its driver was frightened out of his highway trance.

He looked back. The gap was staying constant—

A pickup truck ahead suddenly pulled across to the outside lane, speeding up to draw alongside a Chevrolet Cruze – then cutting speed to match it. The pickup’s driver had seen the strobes behind and decided to make the automotive equivalent of a citizen’s arrest, blocking the Mustang’s path so that what he thought was law enforcement could catch the speeder.

Adam had no choice but to brake hard, the Ford snaking. He looked frantically to each side of the rolling roadblock. There was no crash barrier along the grassy median strip to his left, but the number of approaching headlights warned him that crossing into the oncoming traffic would be suicide.

A paved cycle lane ran parallel to the highway on his right. But it was too narrow to fit the Mustang . . .

No choice.

He braced himself and swerved over the kerb with another tooth-shaking crash from the suspension. Then the Mustang was straddling it, right wheels all the way over at the cycle lane’s far side while the left rattled in the Parkway’s gutter.

Foot down. The black car accelerated, drawing level with the Cruze occupying the inside lane – and making contact. The flanks of the two vehicles ground together as the Mustang passed. The door mirror on Adam’s side was sheared off with a crack.

The Cruze’s driver panicked, instinctively turning away – and sideswiped the pickup.

Adam accelerated and dropped back on to the highway. The Chevrolet swung across the road behind him, just missing the Mustang’s rear bumper. The weaving pickup braked hard. Its tail end slewed around, bringing it broadside on across the lane—

A collision was unavoidable for the lead SUV. Reed, driving, took the less damaging option, veering right to hit the smaller Cruze rather than the big 4x4. With two men and their gear aboard, the Suburban was more than twice the weight of the compact car. The result was inevitable. The Cruze was swatted aside, spinning on to the cycle lane with its flank caved in.

But the SUV also took damage. The impact shattered its right headlamp cluster and tore off the front bumper, Reed battling to keep control as the Suburban reeled over the kerb. It ripped through bushes at the roadside before finally slowing.

One down, if only temporarily – but still two to go. The other Suburbans also swerved to avoid the pickup, narrowly missing the wrecked Cruze before overtaking Baxter and sweeping back into pursuit of the Mustang.

The Parkway curved round in a long sweep to head north. Adam was a mile from the Frederick Douglass Bridge, which led across the Anacostia River into the heart of the capital. From there it was about three miles to his destination.

The traffic ahead was more spaced out. He shoved his foot to the floor. The Mustang surged forward. A hundred and ten, one-twenty. The wind noise through the broken rear window sounded like a jet taking off. At this speed the steering felt hypersensitive – the smallest mistake would throw him wildly off course. He gripped the wheel more tightly.

The strobes receded in the mirror. The upgraded Suburbans could probably match his speed in the