Worse, Paul had chosen as his escape route a winding, solitary stretch of track road, which allowed two-way travel but, in reality, was wide enough for only one car. The road was also made of dirt—not the best choice for a high-performance sports car—and it dipped and rose between rolling valleys of undeveloped land.

Sebastian kept reminding himself to drive carefully. The Bugatti had a lot of horsepower, and it was suited to driving on flat surfaces, not winding dirt roads through hillsides and mountains. If he didn’t maintain control over the car, especially near one of the hairpin curves, he could spin out, drive off the road, and crash.

For the next twenty minutes, he trailed Paul under a sky glowing blood red from the nearby wildfires. The glow intensified, making Sebastian wonder where Paul was going. Is he playing the ultimate game of chicken, thinking I’ll stop following him? What’s the son of a bitch doing? Sebastian didn’t have the luxury of focusing much on these thoughts; he had to bear down hard on driving, having Paul in his view one moment, only to lose sight of him as the younger man took another switchback road or hairpin curve or drove down some steep decline or up some rise, Sebastian’s heart freezing with dread and loss until he caught sight of Paul again, thanks to the Lamborghini’s headlights. Paul, he was sure, would have preferred to kill the headlights, but he couldn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to see the roads and could very well crash or drive off an incline.

Paul turned right, across a sharp curve, and disappeared behind a stretch of land. Sebastian reached it minutes later, and when he turned onto the flat stretch of dirt road, he saw, maybe half a mile ahead, the road engulfed in flames that reached so high into the air, they looked as though they were touching the sky.

But where was Paul? Sebastian didn’t see his vehicle or its headlights; he didn’t see any other roads. Had Paul decided to drive off-road, through the valley of scrub brush? The Lamborghini wasn’t designed to handle that type of terrain. But there was nowhere else for him to go unless he turned around and—

There! There he is! Sebastian caught sight of one of the taillights through the clouds of smoke whipping across the road; then, as he drew closer, he saw that Paul had backed up, the sports car now sitting at an angle, like a sawhorse set up to block the road. But Paul wasn’t moving. In the glare from the headlights Sebastian saw him furiously trying to work the gearshift and clutch.

End it here. End it now.

But how? What was the best approach?

Sebastian had an idea—risky, yes, but still promising. He reached into his front pocket and grabbed the switchblade he always carried with him. It felt slick in his sweaty palm, and after he clamped it between his front teeth he put on his seat belt. Then he accelerated, working the gears and clutch, the flames reflecting off the hood of the Bugatti, the Lamborghini growing larger in his windshield. He had reached almost forty miles per hour when he transferred the switchblade from his mouth to his fist and then intentionally drove straight into the Lamborghini’s driver’s-side door.