Ghost Ship

Sam turned right, heading south toward La Spezia on Strada Provinciale 51. If Strada Provinciale 61 was dangerous, Strada Provinciale 51 was outright lethal on a motorcycle. The narrow road snaked backward and forward through sharp doglegs and hairpin turns as it negotiated the series of terraced olive groves and vineyards along Cinque Terra.

The Polizia rode BMW R1200RTs. They were more powerful and faster on the straights, but less agile on the infinite corners, resulting in a kind of shuffle whereby any gains they made would be lost on the corners, but retaken on the straights.

Sam rode hard, dipping into the corners at speeds that nearly forced him to graze his knees in the process.

At first, the three competing riders appeared equally paced, but with time, the Polizia were reducing the gap. Whatever advantage Sam had by riding the sportier Ducati, was lost over time by the fact that he’d never ridden Strada Provinciale 51 before and the Polizia had.

They passed Riomaggiore, the last city of Cinque Terra, and entered a series of steep bends, heading down into the coastal region of La Spezia.

Sam glanced at the two Polizia riders in his mirrors.

They were close enough now that he could almost reach out and touch them. Definitely close enough to get shot, not that he expected the Polizia to take one at him while they were on bikes. Contrary to whatever Hollywood might have people believe, shooting and riding a motorcycle at high speed through sharp bends was never going to happen.

So, if they weren’t trying to get close enough to shoot him, what were they trying to do?

Sam swallowed.

Could it be they were trying to set up a road block? It was possible they were carrying road spikes. It wasn’t like he could turn around now. The bikes were all faster than the Mercedes and the Lancia, but no doubt, neither of them would be far behind — and he still wasn’t sure that Tom Bower was on his side.

The rider tried to cut him off at the next corner.

The curve looked like it went forever. He entered it at speed, unable to see where it eventually came out. He dropped down another gear, leaned into the curve, and accelerated hard. Behind him, the Polizia rode his BMW like a professional superbike rider on the track.

The turn ended and Sam straightened the Ducati up and brought it up another gear.

In his mirror, he watched the BMW swing to the right and the left, as though its rider was judging the best location to overtake.

Sam entered the next curve, cutting it as close to the inside edge as he dared. He really felt like he was competing at the superbike grand prix, only in this case, he wasn’t competing for wealth, accolades, and glory — he was competing for his life.

As the corner straightened, the BMW rider swerved to the opposite end of the road, putting the most amount of room between the two of them that he’d had for some time.

Sam frowned.

A moment later, he knew exactly why.

The other rider, having ridden the route daily, instinctively knew the line — and right now, the curve was about to turn in the opposite direction, back in on itself.

Sam cursed, and swerved to the left, trying to close the gap.

He dismissed any caution and cut the corner so short, that his wheels were mere inches away from coming off the blacktop and onto the grass.

The BMW had matched him, leaning in beside him.

Sam couldn’t keep it up. It was now or never.

He swerved the bike to the right.

The BMW rider tried to straighten up.

Both bikes locked together for a split second.

Sam shoved his boot on the BMW’s handlebars and kicked.

The Polizia tried to regain control. He was a good rider, but there was nothing he could do about it. The front wheel had locked up, and the bike was on an unavoidable collision course with the ground. The rider dropped the bike, and slid off into the grass beside the road.

Sam straightened up and set up for the next corner.

He gave one parting glance in his mirrors and saw that the Polizia had stopped sliding and was already standing up again. The officer brushed himself off and picked up his radio mike.

Sam entered the next corner, and lost sight of his pursuers.

He kept the speed up, trying to attain as much distance as he could between himself and whatever pursuers still remained.

Sam was starting to feel confident. He’d lost sight of any pursuers and was certain he was still gaining more.

As soon as he could get off the main road he would.

Strada Provinciale delle Cinque Terra entered the underground tunnel beneath the national park leading into La Spezia.

The airstrip was close.

He was close.

And then he jammed on the brakes.

Because up ahead — at the end of the tunnel — a strip of metal barbs three inches wide known as stingers lined the entire width of the tunnel.

The device was used to deflate and shred tires.