No-namer?

It was coming back, and the skid—

He made the decision too fast for it to register until afterwards. As the other car leapt forward, he jerked the wheel back the way he’d hauled it and opened the skid up. His guts sloshed. The no-namer struck, but Chris had read the manoeuvre correctly. With the spin on the Saab, his attacker’s impact was a barely felt jab, in a direction he was already sliding.

The Saab spun about.

For a heartbeat they were parallel, facing each other. He saw a pale face, staring through the windscreen of the other car. Then it was gone, past him southward as he braked the Saab to a wagging halt, pointed north.

Rain drummed down on the roof. He felt his pulse catch up.

‘Chris?’

‘I’m fine.’ He slammed the car into gear and cut a sharp U-turn, peering through the sluicing water across his windscreen. Up ahead, he spotted brake lights. ‘Some. Motherfucker. Is about to have his chassis squeezed.’

‘You’re fighting a challenge?’

‘Looks like it.’ He took the Saab up through the gears, pushing each one as hard as he dared in the rain. The brake lights ahead of him went out and he had to work to spot the outlines of the other car. ‘Guy just landed on me, Mike. No-namer, and no warning.’

He frowned. And no proximity alarm.

‘Chris, call Driver Control.’ Bryant sounded worried. ‘You don’t have to drive this, if he hasn’t filed. He’s in breach of—‘

‘Yeah, yeah. Be with you in a minute.’ The car was swelling in his forward view, moving but throttled back, waiting for him. ‘Come on, you fucker. Let’s see what you’ve got.’

The grey car braked suddenly, trying to get behind him. He matched the manoeuvre and slewed into the vehicle’s side. Metal screeched and tore. His wing mirror went, ripped free and bouncing away, in their wake like a grenade. He looked across and made eye contact through windows streaming with rain. He saw the other driver flinch.

The side-to-side clinch came apart. The no-namer picked up escape speed. Chris grinned savagely.

Rattled.

He went after him.

His own shock was ebbing now, pulse coming down, brain working. Time to kill this piece of shit. Bryant seemed to have rung off, and the only sound was the roar of the engine and the hammering rain. The other car held him off. Neither driver could afford to go flat to the floor in a rain duel, and the no-namer was cool enough to know it. Chris stopped trying to close the gap, and thought about the road ahead.

‘This is Driver Control.’

He glanced down at the radio in surprise.

‘Yeah?’

‘Driver clearance 260B354R, Faulkner, C. You are engaged in an unauthorised duel—‘

‘Hardly my choice, Driver Control.’

‘You are required to disengage immediately.’

‘No fucking way. This piece of shit is going down.’

A pause. Chris could swear he heard a throat being cleared.

‘I repeat, you are required to disengage and—‘

‘Have you tried telling that to our little primer-painted friend?’

Another pause. The gap was less than ten metres. Chris upped his velocity, higher than he could afford on the rain-slick road. He felt a tiny bubble of fear rising in his chest with the knowledge.

‘Your opponent does not respond to radio address.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ll just go talk to him.’

‘You are required, immediately, to—‘

He flattened the accelerator, momentarily, and clouted the no-namer across the driver-side rear wing. Driver Control wittered from the speaker as the Saab slipped and he dropped speed, fighting the urge to brake hard. The no-namer was trying to slow down. He drifted across and blocked the move. Another clank as they jammed together, nose to tail. The other car flailed spray off the road as it tried to pull away and lost purchase in the wet: Chris felt his upper lip peel back from his teeth. He pulled fractionally left, shivery with the lack of firm control he had over the Saab, and accelerated again.

‘Goodnight, motherfucker.’

He hit at an angle and the skid kicked off in both cars. He felt the Saab start to skate from the front, saw the other car doing the same from the rear, in graceful mirror image. Fragments of control left to him, like sand through his fingers. He made a noise behind his teeth and fed all he had to the engine. Hard and fast and raking uncontrolled across the no-namer’s sideways-skating rear fender. Enough to push the whole thing beyond any hope of redemption for either of them. The nose-to-tail clinch came apart like a stick broken across a knee.

It was like cutting a cable.

Loss of control, seeming weightlessness, something approaching calm as the Saab spun out. For a timeless moment, it was almost quiet. Even the snarl of the frustrated engine seemed to fade. Then, he felt a sideswiping impact as the two cars glanced off each other in drunken ballet. The Saab lurched. Time unlocked again. He was on the brakes. His hands were a blur on the wheel, hopelessly late behind the uncontrolled motion of the vehicle. The rain took over. In the windscreen, it seemed to curtain back momentarily, to show him the embankment, coming up fast.

Deep breath.

The Saab hit.

The force of impact lifted the car up on two wheels. It hung there for a moment - he had time to see the grass on the bank flattened against the passenger side window - then fell back to the asphalt, hard. The landing snapped his teeth together and clipped a chunk out of his tongue.

For what seemed a very long time, he sat in the stilled car, arms on the wheel, head down, tasting the blood in his mouth.

The steady drumming of rain on the roof.

He lifted his head and peered out across the carriageway. Fifty metres off in the slashing grey, he spotted the other car jammed against the crash barrier. There was steam pouring out of the crumpled hood.

He grunted, and sucked at the damage to his tongue. One hand crept out more or less automatically, knocked on the hazard lights, killed the Saab’s engine, which — I fucking love you, Carla — had not cut out. He opened the glove compartment and found the Nemex. Checked the load and snapped the slide.

Right.

He cracked the door and climbed out into the rain.

It drenched him before he’d gone half the distance to the other car, plastered his shirt to transparency on his body, turned his trousers sodden and filled his Argentine leather shoes. He had to blink the stuff out of his eyes, rake his hair back from his face to peer into the wrecked car. It looked as if the other driver was trapped in his seat, struggling to free himself. Oddly, the expected victory surge didn’t come. Maybe it was the rain that dampened the savagery, maybe a rapidly assimilating picture of angles that didn’t fit.

No proximity alarm.

No filed challenge.

He stared at the side of the primer-painted vehicle. There was no driver number anywhere on the body.

No point.

He circled the wreck warily, Nemex held low in both hands, as Mike had shown him. He blinked rain out of his eyes.

The other driver had the door open, but it looked as if the whole engine compartment had shifted backwards with the impact and the steering column had him pinned back in the seat. He was young. Not out of his teens, by the look of it. The unhealthy pallor of his skin suggested the zones. Chris stared at him, Nemex down.

‘What the fuck did you think you were doing back there?’

The kid’s face twisted. ‘Hey, fuck you.’

‘Yeah?’ The anger came gushing up, the memory of the attack suddenly there. He sniffed the air and caught the scent of petrol under the rain. ‘You got a cracked fuel feed there, son. You want me to fucking light you, you little shit?’

The bravado crumpled. Fear smeared the kid’s eyes wide. He felt a sudden flush of shame. This was some car-jacker barely out of nappies, some joy-rider who