He had to pass two vehicles to clear ours if we were going to get back into the correct lane.
My pulse raged in my ears. I raised my forearms in front of my face, unable to watch, knowing we were about to be the bug on the four-by-four’s windshield.
Kyle cut back onto our side of the road and I felt the car shudder from the force of wind the truck created as it whizzed by us, horn wailing. I’m sure we were flipped a few fingers from all parties concerned.
I lowered my arms. Tried to breathe.
Kyle continued taking on the traffic and the treacherous turns as though we were stuntmen on a movie set where all the action was perfectly choreographed and timed.
But we weren’t on a movie set. And every narrow escape left me wholly regretting having suggested we take this route, not to mention fearing for our lives.
“This next turn is really sharp,” I warned him. “You’ve got to slow down a little.”
He didn’t. We squealed our way around it, the ass end of the car shimmying.
“Kyle, you can roll us!”
“This car is built for these corners,” he said between clenched teeth as he concentrated on driving.
“Maybe, but last time I checked, NASCAR wasn’t beating down your door for the Daytona 500.”
“Their loss.” He shot out and around another small group of cars.
“Kyle, no!”
He couldn’t make it this time. He veered off to the shoulder of the ongoing traffic. I screamed. The McLaren bounced along the rough edge. The shoulder that had flared briefly now started to narrow.
“You have to get back on the road.”
“No shit.”
“Kyle, we’re losing the shoulder!” And headed straight toward the side of the mountain about to jut out in front of us.
The last car coming our way flew by, more honking ensued, and Kyle jerked the car back onto the road and crossed over to our lane, ahead of the vehicles he’d wanted to pass.
My head whipped around as I tried to gauge how much distance we’d put between us and the Camaro. That driver had made his own daring passes but lagged several cars behind.
I would have breathed a sigh of relief, had I not caught sight of a black object in the sky. I squinted my eyes.
Was that a—?
“Holy crap,” I choked out. “There’s a helicopter.”
“Someone must have called the police.”
The aircraft gained speed, flying toward us. Kyle crested the canyon and blew past the scenic overlook. The curves were gradual, not hairpins. Kyle shifted into fifth and hauled ass. We couldn’t shake the copter.
“That’s not a police helicopter,” I said. “Or a news crew. Solid black, no logos. Looks pretty high-tech.” My heart thundered. “Son of a bitch! These guys have helicopters?”
Kyle took a few less risky passes on a straightaway, but I still couldn’t catch my breath.
“We have to ditch this car,” he said.
“Impossible. Once we hit town, they’ll catch up to us.”
“We can jump onto I-17 instead of staying on the back road,” Kyle offered. The interstate ran parallel to this neck of the woods.
I gave his idea some thought but then shook my head. “The guys in the air will see the move. That totally puts us out in the open.”