Outside, the pulsing thunder of the two-liter engine was more bearable, but still not far below the threshold of real pain. Achermann gestured him into the passenger seat. He hesitated. Was this to be another exercise in intimidation? Probably. He came to a decision.
“Go ahead,” he shouted above the throbbing engine. “I’ll watch.” Perhaps while Achermann was roaring around the track he could persuade the chauffeur to get him out of this predicament. Doubtful, to say the least, but anything was worth a try. There was sudden silence as Achermann killed the engine. Hamilton, surprised in the midst of his thoughts, experienced a guilty twinge as he met Achermann’s eyes.
“You do not want a test ride?” Achermann demanded. His disappointment was obvious. And dangerous. “Or,” he sneered, “did you want to drive a few laps yourself?” It was clear he deemed Hamilton incompetent to operate such a vehicle. And very likely he was correct. But...
“In fact, yes,” Hamilton said, jumping at the only chance he could see to escape. “I’d prefer to drive it myself.” There. He’d managed to say it before he could change his mind. What the hell? His survival was at stake, as Achermann had rather heavy-handedly pointed out. Besides, he reminded himself, Achermann believed the briefcase held $250,000. That was his hole card.
Achermann extricated himself from the car with considerable difficulty. The doorsill was only inches from the ground, and his stiff leg was a hindrance, as Hamilton noted with some satisfaction. Finally he was on his feet, scowling and muttering unintelligibly. Hamilton slid into the seat, placing the briefcase on the seat next to him. He found the ignition switch, and, just remembering to depress the clutch pedal, fired the engine. As he buckled into the seat harness, Achermann reached past him and grabbed the briefcase. “I’ll just take care of this for you,” he shouted over the din of 180 horsepower. He waved Hamilton toward the track, his face a portrait of sardonic triumph.
Hamilton slipped the clutch and tried gently to boost the RPM’s enough to overcome inertia without stalling, but the accelerator pedal was amazingly touchy and he redlined the tachometer. The tires howled as they broke traction, and the car fishtailed sickeningly down the ramp toward the track. He had one lap in which to learn the intricacies of this high-powered monster. After one circuit, he’d whip off the track and head for the gate. He bitterly regretted the loss of his briefcase; it would surely cost him his job. But this was his only chance. He’d need incredible luck just to get away with his life.
He shifted gears, grinding and shuddering as he swept into the first turn, and fought to concentrate on the controls. How many times had he dreamed of being behind the wheel of a race car? Well, dammit, here he was. And it was only a car after all...
He overcorrected as he came into the straightaway and jagged back and forth across the entire width of the track before he regained control. God, this thing was touchy! He stabbed his left foot at the clutch to shift higher and hit the brake pedal instead just as he was entering the second turn. The car slammed into a four-wheel drift, and in desperation, Hamilton released the steering wheel, lifting his foot from the accelerator and noticing the speedometer for the first time. A giant fist clamped his heart as he saw that he was doing 130. As the car miraculously recovered, he realized that the indicated speed was in kilometers, which converted to a mere eighty miles per hour. He fought his way through the remainder of the curve, accelerating again on the straightaway, and there ahead was the ramp leading back to the estate road. He gripped the wheel and centered the ramp between the sleek curves of the wheel wells. This would have to be it.
Hamilton roared down the straightaway and up the sloping ramp to the apron. Achermann, the dogs, and the limousine blurred past on his right as he accelerated onto the estate road and headed back the way they’d come. He had no time for a look in the rearview mirror, all his attention being required to keep this fretful little overpowered skateboard on the road. As he wheeled through the numerous turnings of the road, he began to feel a little glow of pride suffusing the stark fear which had been gripping his guts for what seemed an eternity. But he dared not spare the attention to enjoy it. The driveway to the manor house flashed past on his left, and the next moment he was belting along beside the lake, the speedo reading 190. He remembered there was a tunnel up ahead some where and judiciously throttled back, finally able to spare a glance at the rearview mirror. No pursuit was in sight, thank God. His mind leaped ahead. How was he going to get past the gate? Well, he thought, grinning slightly, he’d bum that bridge when he came to it.
Ahead yawned the tunnel, the rock walls flanking its mouth looking remarkably hard and unforgiving. He downshifted and took a deep breath. The next instant he was in total darkness, the thunderous growl of the engine blatting off the surrounding stone walls and hammering his eardrums. The steering wheel felt like a slender bar of soap in his sweaty hands. He heard himself moan softly, and then there was light ahead. Another second, and he flashed into sunshine, fighting to hold the car steady through a long, sweeping right-hand curve. The gate was not far off now.
He began to slow the car, seeming to have outrun his panic for the time being. Shifting down through the gears, he pondered the problem of the gate. He assumed it was operated in the same way as the garage doors. Perhaps there was a transmitter in this car. Not likely, but he began looking anyway. The roadway flared, and the gate was before him, looking very substantial in the gray stone wall. He took a second look. By God! It was swinging open! His mind reeled. Could there be an electric eye along the approach? Well, it didn’t matter, he was free now! Through the gate and onto the road he sped, directly into the massive stainless-steel radiator of the Rolls-Royce which was just turning to enter the gate.
There was a thundering crash as the two vehicles ground together, broken glass scattering like diamonds across the roadway. The nose of the fiberglass-bodied 904 buckled for a millisecond, then shattered blindingly, the suspension members and steering gear contorting and snapping under stress they’d never been intended to take. The box-beam longitudinal frame members dove under the front axle of the Rolls, sparks showering in every direction. In less than a second both vehicles were at rest, the tortured remains of the Porsche beneath the front axle of the big Rolls. A jet of blistering steam from the ruptured radiator of the larger car seared Hamilton’s neck, and he struggled desperately to free himself from the wreckage. He heard voices.
“What in the hell is my 904 doing out here?” an obviously enraged woman was demanding.
“I’m sure I don’t know, Sabeth,” a man’s voice replied. “Did you recognize the driver?”
“It’s no one I’ve ever seen. Get him out of there. If he’s still alive, I want some answers!”
Hamilton was still alive all right, and beginning to wish he wasn’t.
A man’s face came into view as the hood of the Rolls was raised. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know,” was all he could say. It happened to be the truth.
“D’you mind telling us what you’re doing in this car? On this property?”
“Trying to get away from that madman,” he groaned. “Please, get me out of here.”
“Of course,” the man assured him. “What’s this about a madman?”
“Achermann! The owner.”
The stranger’s face showed amazement. “Achermann? Owner? What in hell do you mean? My wife owns this car!”