PROLOGUE
He had never felt so focused, every fibre and sinew of his lean and compact body concentrating on the taillights of the dark blue Chrysler Imperial that was less than twenty yards ahead of him. His white-knuckled hands were gripping the steering wheel of the tan Galaxie so tightly he almost couldn't feel them anymore, but he knew he couldn't loosen his hold even for a split second. There was too much at stake.
The unmarked police car, with an ear-piercing squeal of rubber, slid around the corner, gaining ground slightly as the Imperial fish-tailed before the tires gripped the asphalt once more and accelerated down the deserted road towards the Embarcadero on-ramp.
Assistant Inspector Steve Keller glanced quickly across the front seat. His partner was staring through the windshield, left foot braced against the dashboard and right hand flattened against the ceiling in an attempt to keep himself upright.
The overhead streetlights pinged off the shiny roof of the Imperial as they sped down the street getting closer and closer to the on-ramp. The gas pedal to the floor, Steve was slowly gaining ground on the late model Chrysler, but he was worried that the temporary advantage would disappear when they reached the elevated freeway. He knew he had to make a move and make it soon.
At three in the morning, the streets were virtually empty, but on this warm San Francisco night, the roar of the engines and the squealing tires would wake a fair number of The City's denizens before long. The Imperial shot through a red light and headed up the Beale Street on-ramp, the tan Galaxie on its tail; the cop car was gaining precious ground but it was an advantage that everyone involved realized wouldn't last for long.
The two large sedans shot onto the deserted freeway. Steve knew he had to prevent the Imperial from reaching the Bay Bridge where the more powerful automobile would have the advantage and could easily outrun them. And from what he could already tell, the other driver was good… very good.
"Do what you have to!" Lieutenant Mike Stone shouted at him from the passenger seat, his eyes still glued to the Imperial's back window, and Steve nodded.
If it was humanly possible, he slammed his foot down even harder on the gas pedal, and the car seemed to shoot forward, closing the gap. The red indicator gauge of the speedometer was as far to the right as possible. The Galaxie got closer.
The specter of the Bay Bridge was looming larger and larger through the windshield as the two sedans screamed along the two-lane freeway. Inch by inch, the tan police car crept up on the dark blue Chrysler.
Then suddenly they made contact. The right front of the Galaxie's grille touched the back left fender of the Imperial. The contact was surprisingly gentle but, at the incredibly high speed, was enough to send both cars careening sideways across the asphalt, suddenly and terrifyingly out of control.
The steering wheel tearing out of his hands, Steve felt a blinding pain shoot through his lower right arm and he knew his right wrist had snapped in the split second before the tan sedan hurtled across the freeway and slammed into the concrete guardrail. The Imperial slewed across the tarmac in the other direction, turning almost a hundred and eighty degrees before plowing trunk first into the barrier on the other side of the freeway.
In a second it was all over. Both cars were crumpled masses of broken glass and tangled metal; oil and gas dripped onto the asphalt. Boiling radiator water hissed as it escaped into the cold night air. But nobody in either car could hear it.
