The Persona Protocol - By Andy McDermott Page 0,182
long run, but he had superior acceleration.
The highway curved back to the north-west. Just seconds had passed, but he had already devoured half a mile, gliding back and forth between the two lanes to flash past other vehicles. Glaring lights to his right, buses lined up beneath them at the Anacostia Metro station.
Traffic lights ahead.
They turned red—
The road widened into four lanes at an intersection. All were filled.
Brake!
Adam stamped on the pedal. The Mustang’s tyres shrieked in smoking protest as the speedometer needle plunged. But he wasn’t slowing quickly enough, the back of a container truck looming directly ahead like a steel wall . . .
He jerked the wheel to the left. There was a narrow paved dividing strip separating the northbound and southbound sides of the Parkway. The Mustang rode over it with a bang, briefly airborne before slamming back down – heading straight into the oncoming traffic. He pulled hard at the wheel. His car fishtailed, the rear wheels shrilling again as they regained traction and flicked him back on to the right side of the road.
Metal crunched as a car braking to avoid him was hit from behind, but he was already past the collision. The road ahead was clear. Where were his pursuers?
The strobes of the lead Suburban were visible only as reflections off the sides of the vehicles at the lights. It had been forced to stop. The second—
Its driver was braver – or crazier. It leapt over the divider, following Adam’s path through the intersection to swing back in behind him.
The Mustang’s thunderous engine note briefly echoed back at Adam as he tore through a concrete underpass. He was coming up to the bridge approach, the two sides of the divided highway splitting apart.
Brake lights flared ahead, a chain reaction rippling back towards him. Traffic was slowing for some reason.
All three lanes were blocked.
Another intersection was rapidly approaching. He looked past it, spying the bridge’s street lights as it arched over the river. A glinting ruby line ran beneath them, more tail lights glowing.
The bridge was jammed with vehicles. No way to get across.
Not on this side, at least . . .
He threw the Mustang hard to the left, swerving on to a single-lane access ramp.
Lights ahead – a car coming the other way. He rode up on the grass to avoid it. The Ford wriggled like a fish, trying to break out of his grip. The other car whipped past, but now the Mustang’s tail was slipping out again, sending him slewing towards a tree.
If he braked, he would spin out—
Mud sprayed up behind him as he feathered the throttle, holding his car on the very limit of control to make a powered drift around the curve. He sawed at the wheel to keep it on course.
Green gave way to grey in the headlights. The Mustang dropped back on to the road with a chirp from the tyres. He yanked the wheel back in line, heading for the bridge.
The wrong way. He was now driving head-on into traffic coming out of central Washington – and there were only two lanes, concrete barriers hemming them in.
Blue pulses in the mirror. The Suburban was catching up.
Adam flashed the Mustang’s headlights, jerking the wheel left and right to weave through the oncoming vehicles. Left into a gap, then sharply back to the right—
Two cars side by side dead ahead. Not enough room on either side to get round them.
All he could do was aim directly between them and pray they had enough sense of self-preservation to get out of his way . . .
The car on the left did, swerving and braking. The driver on the right was either dumbfounded or distracted, continuing straight at him.
Adam jinked to the left. But the gap was still not wide enough—
The second driver finally reacted to the headlights charging at him and jerked away. The Mustang threaded its way through the newly opened gap at sixty miles per hour, clipping the other car and veering to the right. The barrier rushed at Adam . . .
He stamped on the brake, hauling the wheel back to the left. The Mustang slithered around, its back quarter hitting the concrete with a crunch that threw him sideways. He straightened with a pained gasp. The speedometer fell below thirty. He dropped through the gears and accelerated again.
More cars ducked out of his way as he headed into the traffic. Where was the Suburban?