I had no idea what he was doing as he reached around me until I felt the seatbelt sliding across my chest and waist, then clicking into place.
Only when he had me secured did he fall back into his seat and fasten his own belt.
“They’re right behind us.”
“I see that,” I agreed, focusing not on panicking about how close they were, but on taking slow, deep breaths.
If there was ever a time you needed your wits about you, it was when you were operating a potential deathtrap while being pursued by armed men.
“Can you see them?” I asked, taking another turn, this one a little smoother.
“Black sedan. Heavy tint. No plate.”
“Of course. Why can’t we just have an incompetent tail?” I grumbled, getting a surprised chuff of a laugh.
“Are you always so calm while being pursued?”
“Yes.”
“Happens a lot, huh?” he asked, bracing his hand on the dash as I took another turn.
Normally, my advantage should have been that I knew this area painfully well. I was dogged about that kind of thing. I would study maps, learn every side street and alley. Then I would take my car out (or go on foot) and drive or walk it, making sure I knew it all by sight, not just by directions.
But whoever this was behind us, he was either from the area or had done his research too.
They seemed to anticipate my every move before I even decided to make it, never getting more than two car lengths behind my car.
I took another turn.
Just as they revved up, came closer, clipped my bumper, and sent the car into a spin.
Tires shrieked.
There was a small puff of smoke from the friction of the tires.
I steered into the skid, keeping my eyes on where I wanted to go, not the problem that had sent me spinning. I feathered the throttle, giving the engine small bursts of acceleration.
If you gave it too much, you fishtailed.
If you gave too little, you lost complete control.
And if you hit the brake, well, you were probably going to tighten the spin and lock yourself out of any chance of recovery.
“Fuck,” Caymen hissed under his breath as we spun and spun. We’d been going too fast to hope we might only turn around twice.
I focused on my breath, on the little taps to the throttle, on my grip.
But sure enough, faster than it probably felt like, the spin slowed, the car started to straighten.
I unwound the wheel carefully to avoid an overcorrection. Then, once the car was back in line, I didn’t hesitate; I floored it out of there.
My car scratched against the chase car as he tried to speed forward to pull a quick K-turn.
But I had him.
I knew it.
He knew it.
