Behind him, the stalks were flattened like the wake of an ocean liner—no problem for the Caddy to follow. Lou couldn’t see it at the moment, but he had no doubt it was coming. The man at the wheel seemed to be a much better driver than he was, and the car, surprisingly, was at least as fast as the Benz.

The slashing stalks were blinding. From behind, he thought he could see the Caddy again, bouncing through heavy dust. There was a loud crack and his rear window shattered.

Faster, dammit! Faster!

Instinctively, Lou ducked to avoid the spray of dirt and debris now being sucked into the Mercedes.

More gunshots.

The Caddy again closed through the sandstorm behind him.

Then, over the roar of the Benz, he heard another sound—the howl of a powerful engine.

Something big.

A combine harvester, he realized.

Through the stalks he could see the top of the glass cab moving toward him and closing fast.

He was in the ER, now, and things were unraveling rapidly for the patient on the gurney. Blood pressure was plummeting. Heart rhythm was wild and irregular. No time to reason or plan. Only time to react.

Slamming down on his horn, Lou hoped to drown out the engine’s sound. Anything to keep the driver behind him from realizing the harvester was there. He intentionally let up on the accelerator, beckoning the Caddy to close in. Dust was filling the Benz and choking him. Corn continued to lash against the windshield. Lou could see just enough to gauge the distance between him and the harvester. Maybe twenty seconds to impact.

Ten tons barreling at him. Probably more.

The Caddy was on his tail now, exploding through his wake like number two in a cigarette speedboat race.

The driver had to be flying blind.

The Mercedes was going fifty.

The Caddy was close on his tail.

At last an advantage.

Blood pressure zero, pulse zero.

No more time.

Go for it!

It was Rebel Without a Cause, and he was James Dean, playing chicken with a ten-ton harvester.

Through the windshield Lou saw only green. The Caddy hit him—once, then again.

Fifteen seconds …

The harvester was green, he could tell now—green with half a dozen bright orange torpedo-like protrusions shearing off the ears at ground level and sucking them up. The driver was a dark shadow in the glass tower of the machine. Any moment he would realize what was happening, but by then, hopefully, it would be too late for the Cadillac and the men inside.

Number twenty blade, please … Chest cutters … Rib spreaders … Come on, everyone, no time … No time!

The gunman in the Caddy fired again. The bullet passed through the opening where Lou’s rear window had been, and spiderwebbed the front one. Another shot, more spiderwebbing.

Ten seconds.

Lou ducked low in his seat.

The orange torpedo scoops began turning toward Lou’s right.

Time!