Eighty-seven, bumper-to-bumper, tearing through the wide and empty night. The Mustang had all the horses and started to pull away, but it slowed for a curve in the road and Luke saw his chance. He kept in the high eighties and maneuvered into the oncoming lane. His back end fanned out precariously and for one loud heartbeat he thought he was going to lose it, but the Caliber found its line and held the road. Luke drew alongside Johan. The two men looked at each other through their windows. Johan’s upper lip was flared, his teeth stained green in the dashboard lights.

Luke edged right. Their doors kissed with a dull bang. Both cars weaved, rocking on their springs, then came together again. Luke’s side mirror shattered and the passenger window cracked. His hope was to slow Johan down, then clip his back end and spin him out. He had to outmuscle the muscle car, which could be achieved with technique rather than brute force. He’d learned some tactical driving skills during a two-week course in prep for Out of Midnight. He was about to see how effective they were when the cameras weren’t rolling.

Johan did slow down—eighty-seven was too fast to play bumper cars—but not by enough. Luke matched him, watching the needle drop to seventy, but spinning him out at this speed would probably result in the Mustang flipping multiple times. Not good for Kitty, tied up on the backseat. Luke had accepted that she might be injured in this exchange, but he wanted to avoid it, if possible.

“Come on, you son of a bitch.” Luke’s tongue was thick with the taste of blood. His entire body drummed with pain—a loud, constant percussion from the cap of his skull to the balls of his feet. He refused to let it in, riding his adrenaline as hard as he drove his car. They raced out of the curve and Luke was greeted by headlights—an oncoming vehicle, moving fast. He nudged Johan again, trying to squeeze into his lane, but the Mustang held its ground. Luke went the other way, swooping onto the eastbound shoulder and avoiding a head-on collision by a matter of feet. For one deathly second it was all light and sound, then the vehicle’s taillights were in his rearview.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Luke’s lower body flushed ice-cold. His scalp stiffened, lifting every hair. He experienced a single tick of relief, then the Caliber’s tires started to lose traction. Hands soldered to the wheel, he steered a hard right, onto the road again. Momentum carried him all the way over and he punched hard into Johan’s door.