There was a deep throaty roar behind us, and the lights from the Annihilator grew more massive. The vehicle was only inches behind our bumper. Then there was the sound of a horn, a deep, resonating blast like a ship pulling into the harbor, that I could feel in my bones.

“The guy’s out of his fucking mind,” Lawrence said. He hit the gas and we pulled away from the truck. We heard another roar as our pursuer gunned his engine.

“I think he wants to drive right over us,” I said.

“If he gets a chance, he will,” Lawrence said. “Hang on.”

He yanked the wheel hard to the right, sending us down a side street. The car lurched wildly and all four tires skidded across the pavement, but we made the turn and barreled our way up the street. The SUV, with its high center of gravity, couldn’t navigate the turn at such a high speed, but this didn’t seem to trouble the driver all that much, who steered the beast over someone’s lawn, plowing through a row of hedges and a small fence, and flattening a bicycle that had been left out on a driveway.

“If you had a chance to pull over anywhere,” I said, “you could just let me out.”

And then I heard a popping noise. Pop-pop-pop.

Lawrence said nothing, just kept both hands gripped on the wheel, swinging hard to the right, then to the left, glancing for split seconds at his rearview mirror.

Pop. Pop.

“Lawrence,” I said, somewhat hesitantly, as the Annihilator, half a dozen car lengths back, caught the back half of a parked motorcycle and sent it flying across a sidewalk.

“Yeah?”

“I hate to ask, but what are those popping noises I keep hearing?”

Rather than answer my question directly, Lawrence told me to open the glove compartment. “There’s something in there we need. You’ll know it when you see it.”

I took out a customized auto-club map detailing the route to Florida. “Triptik?”

“Keep looking.”

Behind several maps, tissue packets, a roll of masking tape, and ownership papers, I came across a small handgun.

“Actually,” said Lawrence, “given that I’m driving, it might be better if you used it.”

This was not a good idea. The last time I’d had a gun in my hand, I’d fatally shot a desk. “This really isn’t my area of expertise, Lawrence,” I said. “I’m not particularly adept where guns are concerned. Plus, there’s the nature of my role here. I’m really more of an observer, not a participant, so—”

And then the back window of the Buick blew out.

“Jesus!” Lawrence said, turning so hard this time the g-forces jammed me against my door. “Hand me the fucking gun!”