My car is pushing one hundred now. At this rate, I will be through the desert in about an hour. I can't imagine driving like a madman for that long, but at the same time, I can't imagine stopping either.
To make matters worse, I have to figure out a way to ditch the police at some point. Not a clue how that subterfuge is going to pan out.
Freeway traffic is moderate. Not enough vehicles to force me to slow down, but too many for me to stay in one lane. So begins a skewed version of Frogger.
I slide between cars, one after the other, somehow not even clipping them. I can't believe I have this much control over the Accord.
A killer's hand is a steady hand.
The speedometer climbs to one-hundred and ten.
Who needs a damn Pagani? The Accord might as well be an F1 at this point.
A helicopter thuds overhead.
Well, shit. Now I have to ditch a gaggle of police cars and a chopper. Probably at least two or three, since both the police and the news will be in on this.
One-hundred and twenty miles per hour.
Somehow, I don't feel any sort of rush from the speed at all. Maybe because my brain is still not processing anything except when to move over and when to move back.
I join onto the I-10, westbound, riding through the gore point. The police cars hold back. It's just me and the helicopter. The damn bird moves effortlessly to keep up.
Yep, I'm probably on the news. Karl is going to be pissed.
One-hundred and twenty-five.
I could be a goddamn jet pilot.
Up ahead, a semi-truck. I swing around him, only to find another.
Arizona, land of the semis. This will be interesting.
I find my rhythm. Swing out, speed up, swing in, speed up. It's almost better than sex. Almost.
Traffic builds. Don't these people know a lunatic is on the road? Turn on the damn news.
With that, I flip on my radio. Nine Inch Nails.
I crank it. Madness always needs a soundtrack.
The city gives way to desert, and traffic thins. Hallelujah. The bird is still above me, but screw him. Screw everyone. Maybe I won't stop until I reach San Diego, then do it Thelma and Louise style right over the edge of a cliff.
Glorious.
The dagger of disobedience stabs my brain.
Fine, I won't test gravity, but I'm not stopping anytime soon. I still have more than a half a tank of gas, and I'm not even tired yet.
Let's do this.
I race the car down the open desert of I-10, the shadow of a helicopter above and industrial music pounding around me.
Life is pretty much awesome.
Traffic picks up again. I do my thing to get around them, but I'm forced to drop back to one-hundred. I swerve from lane to lane. The squeeze becomes tighter, even for my little car. I jump onto the shoulder and slam to one-hundred and thirty.
I've done a lot of stupid shit in my life, but this is by far the worst. I'm putting a lot of people in danger. I'm being irresponsible. And no one is making me do it.
The last point is why I never want to stop. Whether he can or not, it doesn't even seem possible Karl could summon me right now. As long as I keep driving, I'm free.
I pass the traffic congestion and drop off the shoulder and back into the right lane.
One-hundred and forty.
I have no idea how much more the Accord can take. If I wreck, this vehicle is going to disintegrate and take me with it.
So I just won't wreck.
Open desert whizzes by on either side. I will need to turn soon, but I should be able to maintain speed. Still not sure how I'm going to ditch the aerial hunter, though.
I pass another car, then slide through the off-ramp. The Accord hauls ass through a pit stop town, then careens through a gas station and back into the desert.
I am golden.
A dozen cop cars surround me.
I am fucked.
The Accord kicks up dirt as it squeals tires toward one of the Crown Victorias. I realize my foot is on the brake. I'm aiming for a space between two cop cars. A very small space.
The Accord slides through, scraping metal and cracking the side mirrors. The seat belt tightens. I hit the gas again.
The tires spin out, then rocket forward. The helicopter is still above me. Maybe two or three. The cops are behind me. Right behind me.
The Accord stutters. I punch it again. It shudders and dies. Just like that.
I still don't feel anything but the urge to keep moving. I scramble out of the car and run. Sirens are still behind me. The sound is mostly drowned out by my pulse in my head. But it's my own pulse, not the demon hum.
I leap off the road into the desert brush and make like the Scarlet Speedster. My hand goes to my pocket, but not for the gun.
My phone.
I have it dialed and at my ear before I realize what I'm doing.
“Karl,” I gasp, without slowing down. “Summon me. Good god, man, summon me.”
I drop the phone into my pocket and press forward.
Then I'm surrounded again. This time by a dozen cars and two dozen men with face plates and guns.
I skid to a halt, knee touching ground and dirt billowing around me.
My gaze travels the circle. I see their eyes. Their worry lines. Their lives and families and humanity painted on their faces.
They see mine too. But we both know the truth:
I would kill without thinking. I just need the order.