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One by one the convoyers moved to the right lane as we approached and exchanged waves with each we passed.
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DING-DING-DING
“Holy shit!” I yelled, and let off the gas. “What the hell is that?”
“You should know. It’s your car.”
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“I think it’s some BMW warning.” I squinted to read the message on the M5’s dashboard instrument panel, the letters barely visible in the bright sun: TIRE DEFECT.
Holy fucking fuck!
Tire failure was the most common cause of accidents after driver error and drunk driving. I had to slow down, but a panic break might blow the bad tire.
“Tire Defect!” I yelled.
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“Relax,” said Maher. “Does the car feel funny? Pulling left or right?”
“No!” I coasted into the right lane.
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“Well,” said Maher, “the tires sound okay, and if there was a serious problem we’d hear it, or feel it.”
The cars ahead began to pull away, the cars behind bunching up on our rear bumper, poised to pass on our left. Frankl began his pass.
“Alex, no need to slow down just yet.” Our lives depended on the $1,200 worth of armored balloons spinning beneath us almost twice per second, the four Michelin Pilot Sports’ 149 mph ZR-rating well exceeded just before dawn that very morning.
The silver Porsche began its pass.
Our tires had to withstand the stress of carrying Maher, Cassius, myself, our luggage, and my Polizei gear—the sum of which was certainly over the M5’s recommended weight—and absorb 3,000 miles of bumps and potholes, resist puncture by nails and spikes, and the lateral forces of high-speed cornering at near-race conditions.
Had I set the correct pressures?
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Tires expand and contract based on temperature. And tires heat up at high speeds. Using that logic, I’d told the BMW San Francisco tech to set them at 42/46, allowing for expansion to the Michelin recommended 44/48, but I hadn’t told him why. And I hadn’t consulted with Maher, despite his superior track-earned knowledge.
Maher would have—should have—made me stop 10 seconds earlier had he thought we were in danger. But Maher wasn’t stupid.
He stared straight ahead, deep in thought. “Alex,” Maher finally decreed, “if one tire was bad we’d feel it, so either all four are shot, which is unlikely, or it’s the system, which is most likely.”
“Unless I set all four too low, and now they’re all about to blow.”
“Take it back to 95 so we don’t lose these guys.”
“You sure?”
“Dude, this car’s built like a fucking brick. We’ll check the pressure at the next stop.”
“You’re right,” I said. In the prior 17 hours I’d pushed this car harder than I ever imagined possible. We’d averaged 79 mph through traffic and snow to Reno, and over 100 mph—including one fuel stop—through the night to Las Vegas.
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If he was wrong, we’d be killed quite soon, but I trusted him. Enough to risk my life on it.
“Just saw a sign for Arizona,” said Maher.
“Switching scanner frequencies,” I said out loud, leaning forward to switch scanner banks. “Arizona now active!”
It was time to catch up.
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The convoy couldn’t be far.
Traffic ahead suddenly thickened, red and yellow sports cars interspersed among local cars. “Whaddya see?” said Maher.
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“Holy shit,” I said, braking harder, “what the hell is that?”
Three vehicles sat in the median, one at an odd angle.
The latter, its outline bent and crumpled, was slowly orbited by vague shapes kneeling and crawling around an elliptical ring of debris.
Clothes…
51
A green Mitsubishi minivan sat a hundred feet beyond.
“Everyone looks okay,” Maher said, clearly wanting to believe it. “No one on the ground, and someone’s on the phone. I sure hope—”
I finished his thought with telepathic anguish “—it wasn’t one of our guys.”
My greatest fear wasn’t merely that I might be killed, but that I might injure or kill someone else. From the moment I chose to lap Manhattan, safety had influenced my every decision. Formula 1 racing school had included accident avoidance. The Manhattan runs had only occurred between 2 and 3 A.M. The BMW 5-Series’ crashworthiness was well known. I, unlike some Gumballers, had replaced every critical component—brake pads, fluid, tires, air bags, and more. Commitment to any potentially dangerous pass was made after having weighed the relative location, speed, and intentions of nearby cars—whether Gumball or civilian (with additional weight given to possible civilian panic over our speed differential)—and then only with Maher’s consent.
The wrecked minivan—the very possibility that an innocent had paid the ultimate price for what I was part of—ripped this fantasy away.
The accident scene flashed past. “Maher! Gumballers stopped on the right! Do you think we should stop?”
Suddenly, as quickly as we passed Frankl’s idling EVO, Rally Alex took over. “We can’t stop!” I yelled. “Look what I’m wearing! I’m dressed like a doctor!”
The scanner lit up. AZ DPS MOB DSPTCH: “Code Two…possible Nine-six-three…loc—”
“What does that mean?” I said, starting to panic.
AZ DPS MOB B: “Ten-four on a—”
“We need gas,” Maher said with amazing calm. “There’s—”
“But what if they think we’re involved and fleeing the scene?”
“Dude, just pull in here.”
I came to a gentle stop at the pumps closest to the road—and exit—just in case. Maher hopped out immediately and turned to me. “Alex, wake up! Where’s the tire-pressure gauge?”
I handed it to him, my eyes fixed on the gas station’s ramshackle wooden structure, its single long, wide window offering a panoramic view out—and in. Several dozen locals, so far oblivious to the arrival of the German Highway Patrol and ersatz surgeon lacking even EMT training, were enjoying a quiet lunch at the Sunshine Grocery and Sundries/Diner/Bar/ Pool Hall/Game Room Express Mart.
“Maher, I gotta piss, can you get the gas?”
“I’m doing the tires! Piss while you pump!”
Normally, I would never object to making efficient use of the two-foot strip between the pump and the car. In an oft-rehearsed ballet I slid my oil-company-specific credit card out of its special pocket, slid it in and out of the pump, replaced it in its special pocket, then returned the nozzle with one hand and unscrewed the M5’s fuel cap with the other. The rapidly rising sound of Gumballers approaching, slowing and turning to pull in right behind the M5—thereby preventing stealthy urination—suddenly triggered lightning bolts from deep within my bladder. I jammed the nozzle into the M5—unable to even pull the pump lever—and stumbled headlong toward the Express Mart entrance.
“Hey!” the cashier yelled after the white-coated man running toward the back.
I emerged three happy minutes later, walking nonchalantly as if no one would recognize me. Then, as if in a hallucinatory flashback, I heard from behind the cash register the metallic voices coming from a police scanner.
Everyone at the counter was leaning forward. Everyone behind the counter was listening intently.
“—reporting multiple sports cars with that wreck on 93—”
“Ten-four.”
I was almost at the door.
“Hey!” someone called out in my direction. “You, there!”
“Look!” said one of the diners. “Outside! It’s them sports cars!”
“Hey!” the cashier yelled after me. “You a doctor? There’s been an accident!”
“Maher!” I said, out the door, running toward the first island of pumps. “Maher!” Maher, camcorder in hand, was shooting the Gumballers’ arrival. “Mah—” I cut off
my impatient summons when I saw the fuel hose pulsing behind him. I dropped into The Driver’s seat and fidgeted.
“Slow pump,” said Maher.
Disaster loomed. “What about the tires?”
“They’re fine!” he yelled over the thrum of the Ferraris idling in a row behind us.
I needed the scanner up. I turned the key halfway.
AZ DPS DSPTCH: “—repeat…probable Nine-six-two…request medical…Route 93—”
One of the diners emerged from the door and urgently waved at us.
BINGBING!
AZ DPS MOB C: “Ten-ninety-seven…vehicles fleeing southbound…possible hit-and-run—”
Maher replaced the nozzle. Another diner emerged and conferred with the first. The fuel cap clicked and locked. “Alex, want the receipt?” The diners pointed at us and turned back inside. I started the engine. “Guess not,” he said, sliding in and closing the door.
“Sorry,” I said, the M5’s tires kicking up sand as we pulled away.
The CB radio—which had remained so quiet I’d forgotten it had been on since San Francisco—now lit up: “Ten-four on them sports cars…we got a bunch of ’em here at the Mart right now—”
“—sorry Mart, come back—”
“—some boys dressed like doctors just peeled out Dale Earnhardt–style headin’ south—”
“—can someone maybe get these boys to come back?”
“I told you,” I said.
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“Nice,” said Maher, “to see you pick up the pace a little.”
“Maher,” I said, my heart racing, “if we don’t get some distance—”
“Cop on the left! Moving!”
AZ MOB B: “—just spotted another rally ve-hicle southbound 93—”
“Shit,” I said, “he’s talking about us!”
Route 93 South was perfectly straight. There was nowhere to hide.
We stared at each other across the median.
His radar wouldn’t work until he made a U-turn.
AZ MOB B: “—can someone confirm if these rally ve-hicles were involved—”
I craned my head.
Not turning.
“Let’s make a run for it,” I said. “Maher?”
“Do it.”
Then, with none of the reckless humor of the namesake film’s drivers, one word came to mind.
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Gumball
CHAPTER 13
The Head of the Snake
U.S. ROUTE 93 SOUTHBOUND
SOMEWHERE SOUTH OF KINGMAN, ARIZONA
“Maher, how far to Phoenix?”
“About…a hundred and sixty, hundred and seventy miles?”
“High-speed convoy ahead!” said Maher. “Last car is…black 550, large antenna!”
Collins. We were close—and getting closer—to Rawlings. Rawlings meant Kenworthy. This was the lead convoy.
I bore right—behind Collins.
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I matched his speed. Collins flashed his hazards in recognition, then waved.
“Maher, I’m gonna hang right here. He knows what he’s doing.” Maher nodded. This was the first time he’d consented—unless police were in sight—to staying behind anyone. He reached forward and turned up the scanner volume.
AZ DPS DSPTCH: “—all units on South 93…Gumball rally cars are going through Wikiup milepost 120 still at a high rate of speed, again…Gumball rally vehicles at a high rate of speed Thirteen-twenty-six—”
“That’s us,” said Maher.
“Wikiup has to be just ahead of our convoy…how many cars you think?”
“Looks like fewer than twenty cars.”
“Which means this convoy can’t be more than a mile long, which means we should be right on top of Wikiup now, but I haven’t seen any signs—”
“Any Gumballers,” the CB squawked, “got your ears on?”
“Who’s that?” I asked as Maher reached for the CB handset.
“Ten-four,” Maher broadcast, “this is Polizei, who’s this?”
“Hey, Polizei, this is Dennis Collins and brother James in the 550.”
“Copy that, Dennis. Any word on bears around here?”
“We heard something about a speed trap in a place called…Wikiman? Wikiup? About 15 miles from here.”
“Holy shit,” I said to Maher. “If Wikiup is 15 miles away, and the lead vehicles are already through, then this isn’t the lead convoy. Collins must have fallen behind.”
Fifteen miles was a huge gap. Given no traffic and no police, we might be able to catch up with Rawlings’s Avalanche, but only if we greatly exceeded his 130 mph top speed. Catching up with Kenworthy would be impossible. His GT2 had at least a 20 mph top speed advantage over the Polizei M5’s theoretical 180 mph limit.
EASTER SUNDAY, APRIL 20, 2003
LOEWS VENTANA CANYON RESORT TUCSON, ARIZONA GUMBALL + 3
“Don’t tell me,” I said, hunting desperately for a piece of luggage I was quite sure I’d unloaded.
“Duuuuude,” Maher said from his bed, “you should have seen this one girl at the bar last night.”
“Katie? I saw her, the one who mooned us.”
“Yeah,” Maher groaned. “I wish we could fit her in the car.”
“Me, too, but we’ve got a bigger problem. Missing bag of Polizei uniforms. Today’s Plan B. Meet me at the M5 in ten.”
I’d gotten up an hour early to position the M5 at the start of the grid, and with great satisfaction I walked out through the lobby doors only to find approximately ten Gumball cars forming a single line from the end of the hotel’s driveway back to the parking lot. But not Rawlings or Kenworthy.
I sprinted to the M5, closed the door on Team Polizei’s Plan B uniform of the day—a Tucson Loews Ventana Canyon Resort quilted bathrobe—then quintupled the parking lot’s 10 mph limit and pulled into line—
Fucking silver Porsche cutting me off?
—in twelfth place, right behind Kenworthy.
We emerged from our cars.
“It’s the policeman!” he said with a boyish grin.
Rob “Lonman” Kenworthy, six-foot-one with a crew cut, looking every bit the rugby player he was, the legendary Gumball veteran, heralded on the Gumball, BMW, and Porsche message boards as the “fastest” Gumballer of all time, The Driver whose car I’d never seen moving, one of the two Gumballers every other Gumballer wanted to run with, one of the Gumballers most likely to know, know of, or be known to The Driver, knew who I was.
“Hey!” I said.
“Good luck today, Roy!”
He even knew my name.
“Know where we’re going?” I asked Maher.
“Heard it’s a BIG one today!” he yelled, standing through the M5’s open sunroof. His bathrobe flapped against my face as we inched toward the start line.
“Maher! Do you see Rawlings from up there?”
“No!”
“Collins?”
“No!”
We moved up to the start line. Maher dropped into his seat to review the route card and program our finicky GPS.
“White Sands Missile Range,” he read out loud. “Three hundred and five miles.”
“That’s not gonna be in the GPS. Near Las Cruces?”
“I did hear a rumor we’re going to San Antonio.”
“San Antonio, Texas?” I looked at the map. “About a thousand miles.”
One thousand miles straight across the desert. There would be nowhere to hide from police, and there was only one way to get there.
I-10 EASTBOUND
10 MILES SOUTHWEST OF WILCOX, ARIZONA
One hundred and sixty-four miles per hour.
“High-speed convoy ahead!” said Maher. “White Mercedes SL, silver Porsche, black Mercedes SL, and the lead cars are…a silver—” Maher leaned forward as if inches would make it clear. “GT2!” he yelled. “And a red…i
t’s the F50!”
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. “The F50!”
Kenworthy’s GT2, the million dollar F50, and Macari’s SL55 AMG; the lead convoy.
“Pick it up!” Maher yelled. “That GT2 can do 212, and the F50…”
We became the tail of the world’s fastest snake, following its red-and-silver head from the right lane to left and back again—around the occasional truck and civilian—at over 150 mph.
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DING-DING-DING
Wha—
TIRE DEFECT
Don’t panic.
My hands froze on the steering wheel.
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The road is straight. The shoulder is clear. There’s nothing to hit.
My right foot shivered with doubt.
“What do I do?” I yelled. “Do we slow down?”
“I checked the pressures,” Maher said calmly, “they’re fine. Ignore it. Trust me,” said Maher.
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I needed to make up for even this momentary hesitation on the throttle.
“Nice one catching up,” said Maher, “but I still can’t believe those guys are right behind us.”
“Who?” I looked in the rearview mirror.
Holy shit.
The only BMW X5 in the United States capable of 147 mph was less than one car length behind us and trying to pass.
“Jesus,” I said. “A BMW X5 SUV? Those Koenigsegg support guys are crazy.”
“What’s in that thing? The new 4.8?”
“I think it’s a 4.6,” I said, eyes darting to the mirror, “engine’s similar to ours, newer, I guess.”
“But carrying a lot more weight…with four people and luggage.”
“Maher, we’re three and more luggage.”
“Alex, did you forget Cassius isn’t in the car today?”
“Oh yeah, where is he anyway?’
“In our convoy,” said Maher, “with Macari in the SL55.”
“Dude”—Maher smiled—“the Plan B bathrobe idea was sweet.”
“I like to be comfortable. Bathrobe plus a/c is the only way to Gumball.”
The X5 driver chose to stay behind us, but his intermittent lunges made it clear he was gauging his top-end acceleration.
“What about Frankl? Haven’t seen him since he stopped to help that accident.”
The Driver Page 12
