This is not, repeat, not suitable transportation for someone of Dr. Jack Moreau’s stature but it’s all he’s got at the moment. Grabs the sticky gearshift, rams it into drive, and starts to move.

Wait. Move where?

Out of the city, zips through his brain. Out of the city—fast.

Doesn’t remember why he should want to leave the city, but the idea is there, and it’s insistent. But where out of the city?

Rage blooms anew as Jack passes the burning Beamer. He knows who owns it. Dragovic. That Serb bastard sent those two gooney boys to kidnap him and bring him—where? To his place in the Hamptons, of course, the place Jack trashed.

Now Jack knows where he’s going.

“You want a face-to-face, Dragovic?” he shouts to the streaked windshield as he heads for the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. “You got it!”

Rearview mirror is angled toward him and he starts when he sees a stranger in it. Face in the mirror is blackened with soot, eyebrows and hairline singed. And then he realizes the face is his own.

“Damn you, Dragovic!” he shouts, pounding the steering wheel. “You’re gonna pay for this!”

Soon as Jack hits the bridge he puts his foot in the tank and cranks up the speed. Taxi doesn’t exactly leap ahead, but it moves. Sunlight seems extra bright, but the birds fly more lazily than usual, and the other cars around him seem slow and ponderous, as if time is passing at a different rate for them.

Then it comes to him. He’s not Moreau. He’s gone beyond Moreau. His reflexes are superhuman now. He may have a crummy ride, but his newfound powers can more than compensate. He is a new deity.

King of the Road.

Traffic’s not so heavy in this direction—most of it’s heading into his city—but still pretty thick. The King begins weaving in and out, darting into openings where mere mortals would not dare, earning angry honks and gestures as he cuts across lanes and threads narrow divides.

Screw ‘em.

Sees daylight ahead, a nice long stretch of open left lane, and the only thing blocking him from that direct line to infinity is a dark blue Volvo. Jack pulls up behind, riding its bumper. Sees the driver, a woman, idly twirling her hair with a finger as she dallies along in the lane, oblivious to him.

“Lay-deeee!” he shouts, honking. “King of the Road to lay-deeee! Listen to Joan Hamburg in another lane!”

But she makes no move to get over, gives no sign that she’s even aware of the King’s presence, and this only ups his rage.

He’s boxed in, can’t go around her, so he leans on the horn.

“Lay-deeeeeeeeeee!” He feels like he’s gonna explode now and he’s shouting through clenched teeth. “Stop twirling your goddamn hair and get outta the King’s way!”

But still no move to the side, let alone acknowledgement of his existence.

That does it. Jack stomps the gas pedal and it feels good, it feels so good when he rams her rear fender.