His quarry turned right at the end of the block, then right again, and again . . .
Cursing, Garth pulled over and stopped. ‘You crafty bloody bugger!’
As soon as his nemesis rounded the corner, he made a squealing u-turn, turned left at the corner, left again . . . just in time to catch a glimpse of the other car as it disappeared into a back lane. He left off all pretense of stealth now, and careened into the alley at forty-five miles per hour. Ahead, a pair of brake lights flashed, a car fishtailed into a narrow alley on the left, he geared down just enough to execute the turn, stomped on the accelerator, and prayed as he hurtled along the lane that no one happened to step out into his path . . .
The unmistakable percussive sound of a car crushed like a tin can up ahead sent his foot for the break with a volition all its own. To his right the air seemed suddenly full of dust. He drove further along, found the narrow lane to the right. Fifty feet ahead he saw his quarry, broadside to him, a mangled wreck against a crumpled dustbin.
Even from this distance he could tell by the angle of the driver’s neck that he was dead as a rat with its crushed neck pinned by a sprung trap.