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The car had emerged from one of the motel parking lots that were often found along the highway. The Doctor’s view of the feeder lane had been blocked by the high-rise buildings to the side of the road, and the pursuer had judged his timing perfectly, appearing right behind the red convertible, and was now on its tail.

The Doctor cursed and stepped on the gas. Balot had been inching toward the rear seats, and the sudden burst of acceleration threw her all the way back. She slammed into the seat, then turned to look out the rear window.

She could see the car, a mere ten meters behind them. She could almost see the aura of intent emanating from it.

“Is it Boiled?” the Doctor shouted. Neither Balot nor Oeufcoque answered. Their silence said it all.

In desperation the Doctor plunged the gas pedal to the floor. The red convertible sped up to full speed, tearing down the road.

But the predator had its prey in sight and was not about to be shaken off quite so easily.

“Looks like we’re going to have to fight him off. Balot—” Oeufcoque said calmly.

But the Doctor cut in, exasperated. “You’re at your limit!”

Balot turned to look at the Doctor, surprised at his vehemence. The Doctor stared back at her—and Oeufcoque—his eyes like those of a doctor ordering a liver cancer patient not to touch another drink, lest it turn out to be his last.

“I’m saying this as your personal physician! You’re completely at your limit—”

But he was interrupted by a crash. Like one of the rear passenger doors had been kicked in, hard. One of the side mirrors flew off the car, heading for the shoulder but then smashing into fragments along the highway.

“The windows and tires are a hundred-percent bulletproof. They’re not about to be troubled by any old gun. We’ll be able to hold it for a while.”

The very next instant a soul-chilling shock ran through the car and the rear window went white.

The problem was that Boiled’s gun was not any old gun. It was practically a portable artillery cannon. It fired shot after shot at the back of the car, crushing the trunk, sending sparks flying off the rear wheels, causing the whole car to swerve. The gunfire stopped for a moment.

Balot continued to spread her senses, to grasp what was happening. The two cars were fewer than five meters apart. Boiled was the only one inside the car behind them. Suddenly, Boiled’s car veered to the right and sped up.

He had finished reloading. Balot sensed Boiled’s car lining up next to theirs, Boiled taking aim with his right arm, judging the distance. The next instant, a roar.

Right at that moment the convertible swerved sharply to the left.

Boiled’s bullet grazed the taillight, then disappeared into the night.

“Balot!” It was the Doctor shouting. He was the one in the driver’s seat, but he understood immediately what had happened. Balot was driving.

–Just duck down. We’ll be okay. Just keep your body low.

Balot snarced the car stereo to communicate, and it obeyed her will, as did the rest of the car.

The steering wheel was spinning every which way right in front of the Doctor’s eyes. Only for a moment, though; it soon sank into the front panel, becoming one with the chassis. The Autodrive function engaged.

While the Doctor sat there in shock, Balot maneuvered the car to avoid the bullets. Three she dodged completely, one grazed the edge of the car roof, and one smashed into the taillight.

Balot had positioned the car deliberately to take this hit. The fragments of the lamp flew into Boiled’s windshield. Balot used this to measure the distance between the two cars, like a boxer’s jabs to probe how far there was between himself and his opponent.

Boiled went to reload his gun, and as he did so Balot unleashed the true potential of the convertible’s engine.

The tires, gears, and shaft were now all set to one single-minded purpose: speed.

The speed of the red convertible leapt up another notch. They were now roaring down the highway toward the outskirts of the city at a speed of over two hundred kilometers an hour. Balot felt her consciousness expanding and becoming ever more sensitive to her surroundings. The car groaned as it pushed on past its limit, and Balot seemed to moan along in sympathy.

Another shock. Not a bullet, this time, but rather the impact of Boiled’s car smashing into the side of theirs.

The red convertible shuddered. Its suspension screamed. The pressure was incredible. And Boiled’s aim was to take advantage of the moment when the pressure became too much—once Balot lost concentration, that was it, and the red convertible would be no more than a sitting duck.

The Doctor realized this. As did Oeufcoque, who said, “Balot, use me!”

Balot felt a faint glow of warmth in her right hand.

Balot hesitated. This was her hand—the hand that had once abused Oeufcoque so. Was she now supposed to forget about that and use him again? She felt the pressure more acutely than ever.

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