Page 57 of Alphahole


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Swerving right, I wrangled the car back onto the road.

Tristan’s head whipped to the side, the dull thunk against the glass making me wince.

“You okay?” I asked, not taking my eyes off the road as I dodged a man on a moped veering onto the wrong side of the road.

A car flashed its lights.

Honked its horn.

I played chicken, daring them not to move as I passed a truck.

They pulled over.

“Fuck me, Zali. For the love of God, get on the right side of the road,” Tristan gasped, a hint of panic in his voice.

“Hold on,” I muttered as I threw the car to the left.

It hit a pothole and bounced.

Hard.

My head slammed against the window, a sting above my eye.

I blinked, clearing my vision.

The suspension was fucked, the tyres probably on their way to exploding, but all I needed was a few more kilometres. We’d survived the town centre. If the tyres held out, we might actually make it.

I accelerated again, pushing the car to its limits. The streets passed in a blur, one long line of lights as the navigation struggled to keep up.

“Take the exit on the left,” Tristan groaned.

I slowed, taking the turn and punching it again. Up ahead was the entrance to the private terminals. But the airport was closed, the boom gates locked down. It didn’t matter. There was no way I could come to a complete stop in time anyway.

So I didn’t even try.

I floored it again. The car rocketed over the speed humps and blew straight through the gate.

An alarm wailed, but there was no obvious movement otherwise.

I tore through the second gate, the boom cracking the windscreen as it was shorn straight off.

I couldn’t see my Falcon 2000 on the tarmac. Where the fuck was it?

“There,” Tristan said, pointing toward the hangars. One bay door was opening.

We were almost there.

Five hundred metres.

Four hundred.

Three hundred.

Two hundred.

Holding my breath, I hit the anchors.

The car slid sideways.

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