When the Devil Drives

by L. J. Hayward

  All around them, the other drivers were powering up their vehicles. The distinctive, throaty whine of the Ferrari, the hoarse growl of the Lambo, the grumble of the Porsche, the deep, smooth purr of the Vanquish. The growing roar made the crowd cheer, notified that the spectacle they had paid to see was about to start. Silver Lamborghini first, the cars rolled out of pit lane in starting order, Victoria nestled in between Calhoun’s Porsche and the TVR as they did a slow lap, showing off for the spectators.

  Maybe it was his personal connection, but Jack thought the Vanquish stood out from its neighbours. She was elegant and sleek, a vision of style and purpose melded into an appealing whole. Jack had made comparisons between Ethan and his car before, but now he made another one—Ethan in a fitted suit, carrying his twin Desert Eagles—style and purpose in a scarily appealing whole.

  Jack made his way back to the platinum grandstand. On the track, the drivers got out of their cars and stood beside them while promotional shots were taken. All but Ethan took off their helmets, to the frustration of the photographer. Overhead, the grey clouds parted briefly and the sunlight cast a sharp shadow over the big screen on the grandstand opposite Jack. He glanced at it, then away, then back again.

  The shadow outlined the top of the grandstand Jack was in, a flat roof with a few geometric projections—and a person moving fleet-footed across it, a suspiciously rifle-shaped object in hand.

  “Fuck.”

  Jack raced up the stairs, taking them two at a time, shoving past people without apology. Maybe it was just a tech carrying an aerial, and maybe it wasn’t. People joked about “taking out a hit” on someone all the time, but Jack lived in a world where that shit actually happened. He was fucking someone who used it to fund his expensive car obsession. There were some stupidly rich people down there and it was possible one of them had pissed someone off enough to earn a ticket on their head.

  The back of the highest row of the stadium was draped with a canvas and Jack tore his way through it, finding a network of scaffolding. Someone was yelling at him to stop but he ignored them and swung out onto the structure of the temporary grandstand. He hauled himself up to the roof, slowing down and carefully peering over the top.

  Sure enough, a figure lay at the front edge of the roof, cap on, a high-powered rifle resting on a stand, barrel pointed down at the drivers on the track. The assassin rolled their shoulders, settling into position, adjusting the stock of the rifle and looking through the scope. Jack had no time to hesitate, so he pulled himself all the way up and onto the roof. The roof was on a slight upward angle and he scrambled up it, not caring about making noise.

  “Put the weapon down,” he called, even as his ascent was noted by the assassin.

  Rolling to their back, the person shifted aim from their target and onto Jack. A silencer barely muffled the shot, the cheer of the crowd doing a better job of covering the sound. Jack dropped flat to the roof and the bullet missed. In the seconds it took them to rack the bolt, he was up and moving. He dodged to the side this time, unable to stop his momentum if he didn’t want to slide all the way down and off the back end of the roof.

  “Aw, fuck,” the assassin said and rolled away.

  The assassin was a woman.

  She came up into a low crouch, dropping the rifle and replacing it with a Glock, also silenced, from a pocket in the front of her hoodie. She fired twice, making Jack dive for what cover he could get behind the support of the big screen hanging just below him. His boots slipped and he had to catch the front edge of the roof to keep from tumbling backwards. It gave the woman time to run. She let the angle of the roof help her, sliding down, arms out for balance like she was surfing a big wave.

  Jack glanced down, saw the drivers were once again in their cars, relatively safe. Engines roared, the crowd erupted again and a girl in a tiny skirt pranced across the track, waving a starting flag for show. Everything seemed all good down there, so Jack went after the assassin.

  As he scrambled across the roof, then down the scaffolding and back into the grandstand, he called up the image of Aaron’s number in his implant. Mentally keying it in, he called the cop.

  “Hi, this is Aaron,” he answered as Jack took the stairs downward two at a time, scanning the crowd for the compact, muscly body of the woman he’d seen with Calhoun.

  “It’s Nish,” he said aloud, not sparing the concentration for thinking the words into the connection.

  “Oh, hey.” The words took on a slightly wary tone. “Didn’t think I’d be—”

  “This isn’t social. I’m in pursuit of an armed suspect, east side of the racetrack, at the starting line. She’s approximately five nine, maybe—” Then he remembered who he was all but yelling at. “The woman from yesterday. With Calhoun, the driver. She’s an assassin.”

  There was a sceptical pause in his head as he hit the bottom of the stadium, having found nothing but stunned bystanders.

  “Nish, are you drunk?”

  “No,” he growled. “I’m ISO. Jack Nishant Reardon, specialist security advisor. Check with them if you have to but can you just get me some fucking backup ASAP!”

  “Shit shit shit,” Aaron muttered. “Um, okay. Let me call the station. I don’t have your number—”

  Jack spun in a complete circle in the relatively clear space at the bottom of the grandstand. “I’ll call you. Just get me some help.” He cut the connection and turned again.

  There! Moving fast but not running, heading for the pedestrian overpass across the track. She had taken off the cap, letting a ponytail of brunette hair free to swish around her shoulders. Hands in the front pocket of her hoodie, she blended into the crowd easily enough. Jack followed her, also not running. If he could just keep her in sight hopefully Aaron would have some of his co-workers here shortly so they could take over. This was their turf, they knew the people and the space.

  She was on the overpass, Jack halfway up the stairs behind her, when the race started. With an explosion of sound, the idling engines were kicked into gear and, tyres smoking and exhausts rumbling, the cars burst into action. Silver, blue, black, chameleon. They blurred in Jack’s peripheral vision and he felt a pang for not being there for Ethan as he’d promised. Ethan would understand, though. Hopefully.

  A sea of people lined the overpass, looking down at the speeding cars. Jack pushed through them, willing to get a few glares in favour of keeping up with the woman. She was at the far end, about to head down, when she turned and caught sight of him. Rather than panic, she grinned, gave him the finger and disappeared downward. Jack stopped being polite and shoved and crashed through the press of people, getting a glimpse of his quarry’s ponytail as she hit the ground again and jogged away. A couple of metres off the ground, Jack swung out over the side of the stairs and dropped. Recovering, he sprinted after the woman.

  Ahead, she also moved into a dead run in the more open spaces between the grandstands and veered right, towards the sheds. Jack cut through under the stands, where the people had stood to look at the cars the day before. The fence was still in place, but Jack flew over it, barely slowing. The area before the sheds was mostly empty, just a few members of various crews wandering around. Behind Jack, the rolling sound wave of racing cars approached, drowned out everything else, then went again. Except not entirely.

  From a shed at the far end of the row, a white Porsche appeared, rear end skidding out wide as the driver swung it around. The car weaved frantically, the driver scrambling to control it even as they tromped on the accelerator. People scattered as the wild Porsche screamed down the road before the sheds. As it whipped past, Jack caught a flash of ponytail flapping in the open window.

  “Shit!”

  “Nish!” Vicky appeared from her shed, eyes wide as she looked after the Porsche. “That’s Brendan’s car. What the hell?”

  Behind her was the low profile of her Ferrari.

  Jack sprinted for Vicky. She held her arms out, as if expecting a hug, but he shot past her and skidd
ed to a stop by the car.

  “Keys!” he shouted. “I’m borrowing your car.”

  “What? You can’t—”

  “I can,” he growled. “And I am. I’ll beg your forgiveness later. Keys! Now!”

  She gaped at him, pale and shaking.

  Jack hated upsetting her, but he didn’t have time for this. “Trust me, Vicky. Or I’ll hotwire this thing.”

  “Keys are in it,” she said numbly.

  These goddamn supercars weren’t fucking made for quick getaways. It took Jack precious time to fold himself down into the Ferrari, listening to Vicky apologise to an absent Katie as he turned the key. It did, however, sound very satisfying when he gunned the powerful engine.

  Contrary to his needs, he eased the speed machine out of the shed and only when he had it facing the way he wanted, did he really stand on the accelerator.

  Holy fucking shit! Being a passenger was one thing. Holding the wheel and feeling it shiver as the car leaped forwards was another thing entirely. What he did like was the paddles on the steering wheel. With a flick of a couple of fingers, he changed gears, smiling at the windup of the engine, then its drop back to a loud purr when he shifted up. The sheds whizzed by, as did the main pavilion, and then he was at the entrance. The rear end of the white Porsche vanished around the corner as Jack slid the Ferrari through the open gates.

  Thankfully, a lot of the roads around the track had been closed down and Jack had the space to kick the Ferrari into high speed. He called Aaron again.

  “Nish, we have five cars heading for the track. The first should almost be there. Where are you?”

  “In pursuit still. Only we’re not on track grounds anymore. Suspect stole a car and I’m about four car lengths behind her.” He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and the Ferrari ate up the distance between it and the Porsche.

  “Shit. Okay, where are you?”

  “Dunno the street name, but we’re heading south.” Ahead, the Porsche made a wild turn down a side street. “Make that east.” Jack braked, Ethan’s voice in his head, talking his way through the practice laps the day before, helping him now. He downshifted rapidly, feeling the Ferrari respond like a dream, gliding around the corner, tight in, wide out. “Suspect’s in a Porsche. I’m following in a Ferrari. Get some fucking cars out here now!”

  Aaron was talking to someone else at the far end of the line, but came back and said, “We have a no-chase policy in Queensland.”

  Jack grunted. “Lucky I’m not a Queensland cop, then. What can you do?”

  “Blockades can be set up and the chopper’s taking off now. What colour cars?”

  “A Porsche and a Ferrari!” Jack weaved around a couple of parked cars. “How many of them could there be?”

  Chuckling, Aaron said, “You’d be surprised. Colours.”

  Teeth grinding, Jack muttered, “White Porsche, pink Ferrari.”

  Muffled laughter, then Aaron said, dryly, “I’ll pass it on. Stay on the line so we can coordinate.”

  Jack left the line open but concentrated on keeping up with the Porsche. Several more corners and they were out of the quiet streets and onto a main road. Traffic filled the narrow lanes of a road obviously adjusted to make way for the racetrack. The lanes were marked by orange cones, flashing signs reducing the speed to forty Ks. It didn’t hold the assassin back, though. She bullied her way through the other cars, using the smallest of openings in the oncoming traffic to move past slow drivers. Cones went flying, a couple banging against the front of the Ferrari as Jack clung grimly to her exhaust. He would have loved his bike so he could slice between the cars with greater ease, but the hot-pink supercar was pretty good as well. It certainly got people’s attention and had them pulling over to let him past.

  All the while, he kept up a commentary for Aaron, telling him in vague terms where they were. It worked, because by the time they were screaming along a six-lane road beside a beach, the police chopper was swinging in overhead. Then, coming in from the north, two cop cars with lights flashing. Behind the cops, barriers had been put up, stopping the traffic coming toward the Porsche and Ferrari. The smaller sports car bumped up over the centre island and down onto the pure, open road. Then it really got going.

  “Fuck!” Jack swerved to follow her.

  Sparks kicked up from the front of the Ferrari as its low front end hit cement, but he made it up and over. Fingers flicking the right paddle, he got the car up to sixth and it flew.

  The cops had stopped, cars angled over the lanes, cutting off escape. The Ferrari slid up beside the Porsche and Jack looked over. The window was down and the Glock was pointed right at him.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jack pulled his foot off the accelerator just as she fired. The bullet cracked into the wing mirror as the Ferrari dropped back. Plastic and glass shattering, Jack flinched and the car swerved wildly. His automatic reaction was to turn the wheel, making the back end fishtail, spinning the Ferrari into a sideways skid.

  When he came to a shuddering stop, Jack panted, hands in white-knuckled grips on the steering wheel. “Now that’s overcorrecting.”

  “Nish? You okay?” Aaron sounded frantic and Jack realised the cop had been yelling in his head all through the near miss.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Just a little singed.” Looking around, there was no sign of the Porsche. “Fuck! Where is she?”

  “Jumped the curb and took another street. They want you to desist. We have cars moving to block her probable route. Your part’s done.”

  Like hell it was done. Jack put the Ferrari back in gear and, even while one of the cops from the parked cars approached, he took off again. Another spray of sparks and he was back on the other side of the road. He took a random side street.

  “Which way, Aaron?” he demanded. “I’m not letting her get away.”

  There was a lot of muttered swearing in his head, then with a sour grunt, Aaron gave him a series of directions. Within moments, Jack was swinging out of the maze of local streets and onto a main road.

  Jack found the Porsche on a two-lane stretch riddled with traffic lights hampering its single-minded flight for freedom. The car’s white arse was a quickly vanishing blur in the distance, outpacing the civilian cars with a superior engine and far more reckless attitude. When he could Jack passed the commuters, throwing the Ferrari into narrow gaps and slamming his foot to the floor to get through them before they closed. The whole vehicle was humming, skimming across the bitumen like friction was something that happened to lesser evolved machines.

  Jack got it now. The fascination with the speed. The glory of being in command of something so fast and dangerous. It didn’t mean he wasn’t still terrified and that right then, the only option he felt he had was to keep going because anything else seemed too tricky. He was a qualified helicopter pilot and had flown some of the fastest combat birds there were, but this was different. In the air, speed wasn’t as immediate as it was on the ground. There was a lot more open space and a lot less things to dodge.

  “You’re on the Smith Street Motorway,” Aaron said. “We’ve got blocks on the entrances and cars on the exits. Try to get her to take an exit before you hit the highway. You’ve got two coming up.”

  If he was cranky about Jack not giving up the chase, he didn’t show it. Which probably meant they’d confirmed his ISO credentials and decided if it all went pear-shaped, then they could point the finger at ISO.

  “Got it.” Jack didn’t care either way. He was going to get this woman.

  A sign for an exit came up and a moment later, the Porsche soared right past it. One chance left. Jack coaxed more speed from the Ferrari, inching it up behind the Porsche. Nose level with the driver’s door, Jack eased over, forcing the white car to the left. She was almost off the road when the next exit came up. Then she braked. Jack charged past, startled by the loss of the other car. In his rear vision mirror, he saw her jump forwards again. He slowed and she caught up fast, the smaller car now on his right
and cutting in close, trying to drive him off the road.

  Jack braked and she shot ahead. He swung in behind her and was on her arse in seconds. With a press of his foot, the Ferrari kissed the Porsche, nudging it into a little quaver, then it pulled ahead again.

  “You’re almost at the highway,” Aaron announced. “Northbound lanes are clear. We’re setting up road blocks at the Helensvale Exit.”

  The road arched up and around, then down into an on-ramp for the highway. Sure enough, empty lanes awaited them and the Porsche leaped ahead as soon as it hit the open straight. Seconds behind it, Jack followed suit, cranking the Ferrari up to nearly 180 kilometres per hour. The police chopper roared in from the east, settling in over them, an ineffectual sentinel.

  The roadblock came into view and Jack knew it wasn’t going to work. Two cars to cover four lanes just wouldn’t cut it. Granted only a maniac would chance the gaps at top speed, but Jack wasn’t chasing an entirely rational person. Moments later, the Porsche proved it, slipping to the left and squeezing through the gap on the side of the road. Roaring right up behind it, Jack went right, yelling as he threaded the Ferrari between cop car and the barrier on the edge of the road. Then they were through the barricade and more open road stretched away ahead of them.

  “No more blocks, Nish,” Aaron informed him. “We’re trying to keep people from entering but some might slip through before we can close all the entrances. There are units on the way south from Coomera. You should be seeing them soon.”

  “Right. I’ll see what I can do now I don’t have to worry about anyone else.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Jack settled into the seat and flexed his fingers around the steering wheel. “Let’s see.” He planted his foot.

  The needle on the speedometer bent further to the right, wavering around the 210 mark. Jack panicked. Fuck, that was wild, but it worked. He shot past the Porsche, the white car shrinking frightfully fast in his rear vision mirror. With a good distance between them, he eased back and when the Porsche caught up, he hogged the road. She tried to swing out left, he was there, weaving side to side. She went right and he cut in front again. It was a deadly game. If she got desperate, then they could both end up in a fiery wreck. Yet it worked. She slowed and he mimicked her, dropping them back to 160, 150, 140. Red and blue lights began registering in the rear vision mirror again, even more coming down from the north. Which was when the assassin got desperate.