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Screw that. This queen wasn’t going down without a fight.
I dropped down a gear and floored it. The Jag surged forward, immediately pulling away from the Toyota four-by-fours the officers were driving.
There was traffic dotted ahead of us.
Tristan held the grab bar.
My concentration narrowed to the road before us.
My mind mapped out a route, instinct guiding my movements.
It was a game of tag, but the stakes were so much higher.
I zipped left, swerving around a car turning right into a parking spot.
Swerved to the right, passing a slow-moving truck.
Over and over like a game of Need for Speed, I dodged the traffic, trying to put as much distance between us and the police cruisers as possible.
A light turned red up ahead.
“Punch it,” Tristan gritted out.
I sucked in a breath and hit the accelerator.
Crossed to the wrong side.
Ran the red light.
Swerved back to the left.
Exhaled.
“Fuck,” I whispered, my voice shaking.
The police cars followed us through one intersection after another.
“We’re nearly there.”
I saw the officer deploy the road spikes a moment before we hit them.
I swerved. Hard.
We hit the curb.
Mounted the footpath.
I fought to keep control, the rear end fishtailing and smashing against the stone wall of a building.
Every instinct in me told me to look away, to close my eyes.
I held tight, speeding up.
The mirror clipped a streetlight. It ripped it clean off.
Glass shattered into a spiderweb of cracks.
We were through the intersection in the blink of an eye.
