Going so fast that tires have quit squealing on the corners; they just groan on the turns. Steering wheel's gone sticky under my white-knuckles grip. To make things more interesting, bullets rip through the rags of my rear windshield.
We roar down deserted roads. He's driving to kill, but I know this stretch… and I know he's not about to slow down.
I stand on the brakes and the whole car spins, slewing me around in time to see his car—trailing smoke and curses—diving over the bank and into the gorge.
This isn't my favorite kind of race.