The Polizia rode BMW R1200RTs. They were more powerful and faster on the straights, but less agile on the infinite corners, resulting in a kind of shuffle whereby any gains they made would be lost on the corners, but retaken on the straights.
Sam rode hard, dipping into the corners at speeds that nearly forced him to graze his knees in the process.
At first, the three competing riders appeared equally paced, but with time, the Polizia were reducing the gap. Whatever advantage Sam had by riding the sportier Ducati, was lost over time by the fact that he’d never ridden Strada Provinciale 51 before and the Polizia had.
They passed Riomaggiore, the last city of Cinque Terra, and entered a series of steep bends, heading down into the coastal region of La Spezia.
Sam glanced at the two Polizia riders in his mirrors.
They were close enough now that he could almost reach out and touch them. Definitely close enough to get shot, not that he expected the Polizia to take one at him while they were on bikes. Contrary to whatever Hollywood might have people believe, shooting and riding a motorcycle at high speed through sharp bends was never going to happen.
So, if they weren’t trying to get close enough to shoot him, what were they trying to do?
Sam swallowed.
Could it be they were trying to set up a road block? It was possible they were carrying road spikes. It wasn’t like he could turn around now. The bikes were all faster than the Mercedes and the Lancia, but no doubt, neither of them would be far behind — and he still wasn’t sure that Tom Bower was on his side.
The rider tried to cut him off at the next corner.
The curve looked like it went forever. He entered it at speed, unable to see where it eventually came out. He dropped down another gear, leaned into the curve, and accelerated hard. Behind him, the Polizia rode his BMW like a professional superbike rider on the track.
The turn ended and Sam straightened the Ducati up and brought it up another gear.
In his mirror, he watched the BMW swing to the right and the left, as though its rider was judging the best location to overtake.
Sam entered the next curve, cutting it as close to the inside edge as he dared. He really felt like he was competing at the superbike grand prix, only in this case, he wasn’t competing for wealth, accolades, and glory — he was competing for his life.
As the corner straightened, the BMW rider swerved to the opposite end of the road, putting the most amount of room between the two of them that he’d had for some time.
Sam frowned.
A moment later, he knew exactly why.
The other rider, having ridden the route daily, instinctively knew the line — and right now, the curve was about to turn in the opposite direction, back in on itself.
Sam cursed, and swerved to the left, trying to close the gap.
He dismissed any caution and cut the corner so short, that his wheels were mere inches away from coming off the blacktop and onto the grass.
The BMW had matched him, leaning in beside him.
Sam couldn’t keep it up. It was now or never.
He swerved the bike to the right.
The BMW rider tried to straighten up.
Both bikes locked together for a split second.
Sam shoved his boot on the BMW’s handlebars and kicked.
The Polizia tried to regain control. He was a good rider, but there was nothing he could do about it. The front wheel had locked up, and the bike was on an unavoidable collision course with the ground. The rider dropped the bike, and slid off into the grass beside the road.
Sam straightened up and set up for the next corner.
He gave one parting glance in his mirrors and saw that the Polizia had stopped sliding and was already standing up again. The officer brushed himself off and picked up his radio mike.
Sam entered the next corner, and lost sight of his pursuers.
He kept the speed up, trying to attain as much distance as he could between himself and whatever pursuers still remained.
Sam was starting to feel confident. He’d lost sight of any pursuers and was certain he was still gaining more.
As soon as he could get off the main road he would.
Strada Provinciale delle Cinque Terra entered the underground tunnel beneath the national park leading into La Spezia.
The airstrip was close.
He was close.
And then he jammed on the brakes.
Because up ahead — at the end of the tunnel — a strip of metal barbs three inches wide known as stingers lined the entire width of the tunnel.
The device was used to deflate and shred tires.
They had been in use in the form of a caltrop — the anti-cavalry and anti-personnel versions being used as early as 331 BC by Darius III against Alexander the Great at the Battle of Gaugamela in Persia.
And now, they were about to make his day turn really shitty.
Sam kicked the bike back into gear, planted his right foot hard on the ground, and turned the bike about face, its rear tire screeching.
He accelerated hard the way he had come.
In the back of his mind, he tried to picture Via Fabia Filzi — the old way to La Spezia, replaced by the tunnel.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Tom frowned. “Well, that could have gone better.”
Genevieve gave an indifferent half-shrug. “Hey, he’s alive, isn’t he?”
“You’re right, it could have gone worse.”
Tom tried to extract every single horsepower from the Lancia Montecarlo’s 2.0 L Lampredi I4 engine as he navigated the sharp corners and steep gradients of Strada Provinciale delle Cinque Terra. The small engine, despite its age, seemed to revel in the challenge.
Behind them, the Mercedes G63 was picking up speed.
There was no way in the world they could outrun it. Forty years of engineering advancements was hard to compete against, even if the Mercedes was a four-wheel drive, weighing more than two tons. The Montecarlo was never going to beat it.
Tom asked, “You got a plan, Genevieve?”
“Yeah, drive faster.”
Tom grinned. “Hey, I’m trying… but it’s not going to happen.”
“All right, all right… leave it to me.”
“How?”
Genevieve bit her lower lip. “I don’t know yet, I’ll think of something. Just don’t let it drive over us!”
Tom took the next corner in a diagonal line that would make some Formula One drivers panic. He got away with it, but knew he wouldn’t be so lucky much longer. He shot a quick glance at Genevieve. “I’d be most obliged to you, darling, if you were to think a little faster.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Can’t you just shoot the damned driver?”
Genevieve laughed. “Are you kidding me? A car like that… the owner would be getting ripped off if he — or she — didn’t insist on complimentary bullet-resistant glass.”
“You don’t know that for certain, do you?”
“It’s a pretty good guess,” Genevieve replied.
They entered a long straight stretch.
The specialized edition V12 ate it up.
“Genevieve!” Tom yelled.
Genevieve aimed the Israeli Uzi and squeezed the trigger.
A burst of 9mm parabellums struck the windshield directly in front of the driver of the Mercedes. Small fractures in the glass, turned to splintered stars, in a tight grouping that would make the best marksmen proud, but the windshield remained intact.
Tom glanced in his rearview mirror. His lips curled into a suppressed grin. “It looks like they might have bullet resistant glass.”
“Oh yeah, you think?” Genevieve replied.
Tom didn’t bite. “What’s next?”