bumped up another twenty horsepower and married to the six-speed manual transmission. Nick would wind that sucker up or down.
He needed all his skills at 9:30 P.M . on Wednesday, May 30. Behind him roared the new yellow Chevy Camaro with its big V8, sold at 426 horsepower, tweaked to 444. Nick knew the car and its driver well. Sweat rolled down his face. He could feel the heat of his body as he tried to tear away from the larger car. His one hope was that the STI proved more maneuverable; plus, the Camaro suffered fromdreadful sight lines. He could hope the big car would spin off the road, but so far it had not. Chevy hit a home run with the Camaro if one loved muscle cars. Except for the sight lines, the damned thing was about perfect.
Muscle cars had made a spectacular comeback with the Dodge Charger, the ever-cool Ford Mustang, and the Camaro. Those Americans who loved cars loved powerful, quick cars, and no amount of gas prices could quite kill that love.
The STI hung a curve—no slide, no nasty feedback from the steering. Nick heard the Camaro break slightly, then the roar of the engine as the driver made up for the slight slowdown. That man, too, knew the capabilities of the STI. Much as the pursuer scoffed at anything manufactured by the Japanese, he appreciated what the machine could do.
Nick knew this part of the county well. There was a dirt road a quarter mile up ahead, just after a sharp right curve off a bit of a rise in the road. It was well hidden. If he could get on that, he could cut his lights and keep moving, as he had long ago disabled the computer chip that kept lights on at night whether you wanted them on or not. As the pursuing Camaro rode up the rise, its lights might just miss him. Nick floored it, flew over the rise—wheels off the ground—and came down with a thud, despite the good suspension. Cutting his lights, he turned a hard right. He peered into the darkness, slowed, then stopped to listen. He heard the huge engine in the Camaro whine by.
Putting his head on his sweat-soaked hands, he slumped back on the seat. He laughed a short dry laugh. If nothing else, that son of a bitch in the Camaro had learned Nick Ashby could drive with the best of them. Creep never would give him credit at the drag strip, either. He waited until he could no longer hear the rumble of the Camaro, cut on his motor, cut on the lights, and drove at forty miles an hour down the dirt road. It would get him out to Black Cat Road, where his new girlfriend, Hilary Larson, lived.
He crept out onto the tarmac of Black Cat Road, drove two miles, then turned left onto her dirt driveway. He’d been planning to stop by earlier, so once he hid his car behind her house, he explained thathe’d run into some trouble. He didn’t tell her what trouble. And he apologized for tardiness, for parking behind the house.
A fright, a sporting event, anything that ramps up the adrenaline, also ramps up the sex drive. She forgave him, didn’t seem all that put out, and Nick had a great night. He’d worry about tomorrow tomorrow. He thought he’d be safe at work. Granted, Walt Richardson hadn’t been safe at work, but Nick figured Walt had just taken too big a bite out of the pie.
The next morning, Hilary made a quick breakfast, then left for work before Nick. She needed to get to the west side of Charlottesville.
Fortified, he walked out, hopped in his great little car, and headed down the winding drive. His exit was blocked by the Camaro. He saw the familiar face behind the wheel.
He popped it in reverse, but too late. A bullet crashed through the windshield, hitting him in the chest. The pain slowed him enough so the Camaro came up close and the driver finished the job with a second shot, through the heart.
T he ambulance took away Nick’s body as Cooper, Rick, and the crime-scene team carefully combed over Hilary’s place.
“Smart.” Rick stared down at the stone-covered drive next to the STI.
“Smart, and the second
He needed all his skills at 9:30 P.M . on Wednesday, May 30. Behind him roared the new yellow Chevy Camaro with its big V8, sold at 426 horsepower, tweaked to 444. Nick knew the car and its driver well. Sweat rolled down his face. He could feel the heat of his body as he tried to tear away from the larger car. His one hope was that the STI proved more maneuverable; plus, the Camaro suffered fromdreadful sight lines. He could hope the big car would spin off the road, but so far it had not. Chevy hit a home run with the Camaro if one loved muscle cars. Except for the sight lines, the damned thing was about perfect.
Muscle cars had made a spectacular comeback with the Dodge Charger, the ever-cool Ford Mustang, and the Camaro. Those Americans who loved cars loved powerful, quick cars, and no amount of gas prices could quite kill that love.
The STI hung a curve—no slide, no nasty feedback from the steering. Nick heard the Camaro break slightly, then the roar of the engine as the driver made up for the slight slowdown. That man, too, knew the capabilities of the STI. Much as the pursuer scoffed at anything manufactured by the Japanese, he appreciated what the machine could do.
Nick knew this part of the county well. There was a dirt road a quarter mile up ahead, just after a sharp right curve off a bit of a rise in the road. It was well hidden. If he could get on that, he could cut his lights and keep moving, as he had long ago disabled the computer chip that kept lights on at night whether you wanted them on or not. As the pursuing Camaro rode up the rise, its lights might just miss him. Nick floored it, flew over the rise—wheels off the ground—and came down with a thud, despite the good suspension. Cutting his lights, he turned a hard right. He peered into the darkness, slowed, then stopped to listen. He heard the huge engine in the Camaro whine by.
Putting his head on his sweat-soaked hands, he slumped back on the seat. He laughed a short dry laugh. If nothing else, that son of a bitch in the Camaro had learned Nick Ashby could drive with the best of them. Creep never would give him credit at the drag strip, either. He waited until he could no longer hear the rumble of the Camaro, cut on his motor, cut on the lights, and drove at forty miles an hour down the dirt road. It would get him out to Black Cat Road, where his new girlfriend, Hilary Larson, lived.
He crept out onto the tarmac of Black Cat Road, drove two miles, then turned left onto her dirt driveway. He’d been planning to stop by earlier, so once he hid his car behind her house, he explained thathe’d run into some trouble. He didn’t tell her what trouble. And he apologized for tardiness, for parking behind the house.
A fright, a sporting event, anything that ramps up the adrenaline, also ramps up the sex drive. She forgave him, didn’t seem all that put out, and Nick had a great night. He’d worry about tomorrow tomorrow. He thought he’d be safe at work. Granted, Walt Richardson hadn’t been safe at work, but Nick figured Walt had just taken too big a bite out of the pie.
The next morning, Hilary made a quick breakfast, then left for work before Nick. She needed to get to the west side of Charlottesville.
Fortified, he walked out, hopped in his great little car, and headed down the winding drive. His exit was blocked by the Camaro. He saw the familiar face behind the wheel.
He popped it in reverse, but too late. A bullet crashed through the windshield, hitting him in the chest. The pain slowed him enough so the Camaro came up close and the driver finished the job with a second shot, through the heart.
T he ambulance took away Nick’s body as Cooper, Rick, and the crime-scene team carefully combed over Hilary’s place.
“Smart.” Rick stared down at the stone-covered drive next to the STI.
“Smart, and the second
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