A gamble. On ice, braking usually means death. But the heavy truck has ABS, and the sudden deceleration catches them off guard.
The flanking SUV shoots past us.
I whip the wheel right.
Impact.
My front bumper clips their rear quarter panel. The PIT maneuver feels sloppy, executed at too high a speed, but physics takes over.
The SUV spins.
Ninety degrees, sliding sideways down the highway. The tires smoke, fighting for grip that isn’t there. It hits a patch of black ice, a pirouette of destruction.
It slams into the guardrail. Metal screams against metal. The rail gives way.
The SUV tumbles into the darkness of the ravine. The headlights spin, once, twice, before disappearing into the abyss.
One down.
I floor it again. The engine redlines. We’re doing sixty on ice. The back end fishtails, fighting for traction, but I hold the drift, correcting with small, precise movements.
“They’re gone.” Her voice sounds small.
“One of them.”
I check the mirror.
The lead SUV recovered. Back on our tail. The gunner stands up through the sunroof, rifle braced.
“Dammit.”
The muzzle flash ignites.
My side mirror explodes.
He isn’t shooting at the tires. He’s shooting at me.
I crouch low, peering over the dashboard.
“Brace yourself.”
Something looms ahead.
Lights. Not moving.
A third vehicle parked sideways across the highway, a hundred yards out. Lights off. A dark monolith blocking the only way forward.
A roadblock.
I can’t stop. Moving too fast. If I brake, we slide into them broadside. If I turn, we go off the cliff.
“Brace.”
I aim for the gap. Use the mass.
There’s a narrow space between the roadblock vehicle, a massive armored van, and the mountain wall. Maybe five feet wide. My truck spans six.
I aim for it anyway.
