Hannon could feel the muzzle of his own Colt still jammed between his shoulders from behind, and he braced himself to take the bullet.

"Ease off, you bastard!"

Hannon laughed at Stompanato, recognized the crackle of incipient hysteria in his voice.

Stompanato's sidekick had the rearview mirror blocked, his face a twisted panic mask, but Hannon caught the Firebird in the side mirror now, approaching and about to overtake them on the left.

The starboard window powered down, and Hannon glimpsed a flash of steel inside as a pistol leveled into target acquisition. The ex-cop had a flash impression of a single, solemn face, a spill of raven hair across the forehead as the driver sighted down the barrel.

Stompanato's backup was alone, and even as Hannon registered the oddity of that, he pushed the riddle from his mind. A quarter mile ahead of them, a freeway overpass provided him with what he needed, massive concrete pylons waiting to receive the hurtling Buick.

Hannon hunched his shoulders, leaning toward the steering wheel as if his posture might extract another mile or two per hour from the straining engine. He never really felt the blow that Stompanato landed on his ribs.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Firebird's sleek nose lining up with the Buick's, and he waited for the bullet to core his skull. The backup man would panic, try to stop him with a flying shot, and the ex-policeman was gratified to know it would not matter in the least. When he died, the Buick would continue on for a hundred yards or so before his dead weight locked the steering wheel and sent them over in a devastating barrel roll.

All that flashed through Hannon's mind within a heartbeat, vividly emblazoned on the mental viewing screen — and none of it took place.

There was no shot. Instead the Firebird pulled away, outdistancing the Buick and leaving them behind.