Page 56 of Alphahole

Screw that. This queen wasn’t going down without a fight.

I dropped down a gear and floored it. The Jag surged forward, immediately pulling away from the Toyota four-by-fours the officers were driving.

There was traffic dotted ahead of us.

Tristan held the grab bar.

My concentration narrowed to the road before us.

My mind mapped out a route, instinct guiding my movements.

It was a game of tag, but the stakes were so much higher.

I zipped left, swerving around a car turning right into a parking spot.

Swerved to the right, passing a slow-moving truck.

Over and over like a game of Need for Speed, I dodged the traffic, trying to put as much distance between us and the police cruisers as possible.

A light turned red up ahead.

“Punch it,” Tristan gritted out.

I sucked in a breath and hit the accelerator.

Crossed to the wrong side.

Ran the red light.

Swerved back to the left.

Exhaled.

“Fuck,” I whispered, my voice shaking.

The police cars followed us through one intersection after another.

“We’re nearly there.”

I saw the officer deploy the road spikes a moment before we hit them.

I swerved. Hard.

We hit the curb.

Mounted the footpath.

I fought to keep control, the rear end fishtailing and smashing against the stone wall of a building.

Every instinct in me told me to look away, to close my eyes.

I held tight, speeding up.

The mirror clipped a streetlight. It ripped it clean off.

Glass shattered into a spiderweb of cracks.

We were through the intersection in the blink of an eye.