We'da made it clean if the fraggin' hole in the road hadn't slowed us down. A real axle-breaker-big as an oil drum and so deep I swear it went halfway to China. Hurt like hell when we hit it. Think of the worst sprained ankle you ever had, then multiply that by ten, and you've got some idea. Luck was still with us, though; the internal sensors told me Demon's axles were still intact. So I floored it and we shot toward the alley's far end.
And fraggin' near collided with a patrol car. Just one-lucky again!-and a glancing blow at that; otherwise I wouldn't be tellin' this story. Demon's right front fender got up close and personal with the front left fender of the Starmobile. Spun the cop car all the way around; when a Leyland-Rover argues with an Americar, even the razzed-up kind the Star drives around in, the Rover almost always wins. Hell of an impact, though. Felt like I'd smacked my head into a brick wall. What with all the other hell I'd been through on this joyride, the crash nearly blacked me out. But I hung on to consciousness by my fingernails, stopped Demon's fishtailin' on the slick pavement and managed to turn us in the right direction. Then I burned rubber and sent us flyin' down the road.
The Star followed, of course. For awhile. Demon and I dodged and wove and bumped across sidewalks, even crashed through a coupla flimsy fences, before we finally lost the last cop car. My head felt like a thousand little guys were beatin' on it with hammers, my feet were freezin' from the icy asphalt under Demon's baldin' tires, and every wild turn made me want to throw up-but I gritted my teeth and kept goin'. That's how you survive in this biz. Me and Demon didn't stop until I pulled her up in front of a clinic near the safehouse, where we knew a street doc who'd patch Zipdrive up quick. And me, too. Wild rides take their toll on a rigger's meat even if lead and fireballs don't. I had a lump on my head the size of an egg from where I'd hit Demon's roof bouncin' outta the pothole, and I was so fraggin' tired that my hands were shakin' on the steering wheel. I popped the doors so Punch could take Zipdrive out, then jacked out and just sat for a moment. Just sat and breathed, and thought about how nice it was to be able to do that.
After a little while I got out of the van. Almost fell over when I tried to stand up; just for a second, my brain had some trouble with the difference between wheels and feet. Like gettin' your land legs back after you've been on the water a time. Then I started walkin' and that was even worse. Every muscle was screamin' at me, and my calves were threatenin' to go on permanent strike. I told 'em to save it and staggered on. The pain was a good thing in one way; it kept me from thinkin' too much about the size of Demon's repair bill. Not that I grudged her any of it, mind-but like I said before, cred was tight. And after this hose-up, I knew we wouldn't get so much as a plugged nuyen from the Johnson unless we took it.
Which we did. Well, Rocker and Punch did. Rocker don't like bein' double-crossed, and Punch… well, sometimes he just likes to break stuff. Specially the heads of people fool enough to rip him off. My share of the "insurance payment" was enough to fix Demon up, mostly-though she'll have to wait awhile for another stealth paint job. Those things cost.
Hell-maybe I'll just send the bill to the Star.