The Driver (26 page)

“What?!? At a pump? Or broken down?”

“Gas!! They must have killed the CoPilot battery and plugged it in! So when they turned the car off, but…wait! We're still 45 miles from Rome!”

“So…he's only getting a hundred twenty miles per tank! Six miles per gallon? I love it!”

“There's your three minutes! I don't think they saw us! Cane it now!”

“This is…insane.” Our forward police lights flickered against the rear plates of what few cars didn't pull aside as we bore down at twice their speed. I was blind to everything except the next car ahead, then the next one, and the next one.

“Don't look back!” Nine giggled. I looked. Our rear flashers had attracted a delightfully slow tail of locals waving in encouragement. I couldn't wait for Spencer to meet them.

“
Alex,
eyes on the road.” Nine raised the phone to his ear. “No, Stevie, that's
our
siren! What? Yes! Got it! Bye!” The sky darkened again. “Aliray, Schtaven reports Spencer's icon active…he's moving!”

The Garmin spoke, inaudible beneath the rush of wind. “Nine! Max volume! Repeat instruction!”

RAMP RIGHT 15 MILES.

Nine reached for the CoPilot. “Already at max, but can't hear it!”

“If we can't,
he
can't. We need to make this turn before he catches up.”

Water sprayed from cars' tires ahead, making 120 our safe limit. We had eight minutes to turn, then seven, then Nine yelled, “Spencer closing!”

“We
have
to make that turn without him seeing us.”

RAMP RIGHT 12 MILES.

Six minutes. Nine and I tightened our seat belts and peered into the mirrors. “I see him,” we said simultaneously and with unexpectedly calm resignation.

“Once he passes,” said Nine, “he might still miss the ramp.”

Spencer inched closer, blocked by traffic increasingly reluctant to recognize our sirens. Nine switched from
Wail
to
Air Horn
. “I guess Romans are smarter than other Italians?”

“Or they don't care.”

Nine waved as Spencer passed. His codriver waved back. The traffic began to clear. Rome was 26 miles. Polizei territory. My territory. I'd driven these roads with my father. Muss had confirmed our Garmin plot. The three-lane-wide A1 gently banked right. Spencer, confident in his car's superiority, broke the first rule of racing. He stayed in the outside lane. I moved inside and broke Team Polizei's first rule of rallying. I pressed the M5's
Sport
button, increasing power but annihilating fuel economy. Both of us would enter Rome on fumes.

“Alex, if you're gonna do this, now
you
have to follow
my
instructions.”

“Tell me what to do.” Nine didn't speak, he pointed. We passed 150. Spencer crawled away at 155. Rome was 21 miles. Spencer bore down on local cars, braking and passing at full throttle, breaking the second, third, and fourth rules of racing. Conserve energy. Minimize steering inputs. Conserve fuel. I read Nine's outstretched arm. Use the whole road. Nineteen miles. The turbo wailed but pulled away in slow motion, unable to escape the tether of my tenacity.

“Road closure!” Nine barked as a diagonal line of cones cut rightward across all three lanes. “Roadblock at the gas station?”

“They'll need guns to stop us.” Nine killed the lights and sirens just in case. Spencer disappeared beyond several trucks funneling into the service area. I accelerated too late, three trucks and two cars between us and our prey. We passed them on the ramp shoulder at 90. With no police in sight, Nine relit the lights and sirens. We barreled between the busy pumps at 60 before being blocked by yet another truck on the exit ramp and losing 30 precious seconds—an eterrrrrrrnity in race time—before getting back on the A1 and accelerating to 140.

RAMP RIGHT 2 MILES
.

“Can't see him,” said Nine, “and can't hear the CoPilot. He's gotta be doing one-eighty. Think he'll miss it?”

“At those speeds, maybe, but I'm pretty sure English people know
Roma
means Rome.”

“Two-hundred-and-seventy-degree left coming up, Aliray, max speed one hundred. Watch for cars!” Thankfully, the exit turn for the A24—the final highway stretch before entering Rome—was totally devoid of civilian traffic. “Wow, he must have taken that at 120. Schtaven reports…he made the turn, and we're losing ground.”

“C'mon, c'mon,” I muttered, my skin pressed against the damp headrest as I accelerated to 145.

“Tollbooth ahead! Blue Porsche two lanes left! He's third in line! Right lane's clear!”

“They don't teach
Toll Strategy
in Porsche driving school. I'll bet you White Castle he doesn't have change.” Nine reached into the armrest. We waved at Spencer, still two cars behind us at the booths when we pulled away in the lead.

RAMP LEFT IN 9 MILES.

This was Spencer's last chance to exploit his speed advantage. All I could do was minimize it, but two lanes of moderate traffic held us below 120.

“Schtaven reports…our icons are right on top of each other!”

“There's
no
way he could get through this traffic unless he took—”

“A pro like that wouldn't risk the shoulder. We might win this one.”

RAMP LEFT 7 MILES.

We heard the Porsche before we saw it, slowly advancing past us on the right shoulder at 125. “Sorry, Aliray, but it looks like we're gonna lose this one after all.”

Spencer moved off the shoulder into the right lane, accelerated, and disappeared.

“Nine! More air horn, I gotta have more air horn. And I thought
we
were crazy. Romans have absolutely no respect for the law.”

RAMP LEFT 2 MILES.

“Right median!” Nine yelled. “He's stopped!”

“He's confused! He can't hear his CoPilot!” We passed the stationary Porsche at 100, three civilians trailing us in tight formation as I weaved with increasing aggression. I slashed into the right lane and accelerated toward a tunnel where the shoulder on which Spencer now approached would disappear.

“Jesus!” said Nine, staring into the right-side mirror. One second before striking the steel barrier narrowing on our right, Spencer slotted into the short gap between our bumper and the nearest trailing civilian. Our exhaust rumbled through the cavernous tunnel, the Porsche turbo's wail searing even through our sealed windows.

RAMP LEFT 500 FEET.

Spencer tailgated us out of the tunnel, we crossed the Rome city limit and turned left onto the ramp for the Circonvallazione Tiburtina. Two lanes of thick traffic split as I forcibly created a third, intermittently lunging forward until an enormous bus in the right lane blocked our merge.

“Nine! Distance to checkpoint?”

“Two and a half miles. What's your plan, smart guy? Now he's gonna follow us in and pass us fifty feet from the goddamn hotel!”

On the tree of possible outcomes I'd nurtured for almost three hours, this was the first unanticipated branch. In the split second during which I pondered a preemptive countermove, a gap opened left of the bus. Blue flashed in my peripheral vision. I was barely able to pull in behind Spencer without being hit by a tailing Alfa who'd switched loyalties.

ONE-QUARTER MILE RAMP RIGHT.

“So speaks the Garmin”—I giggled—“and no word from the CoPilot. Watch.”

The Romans, utterly unimpressed with the bright blue, UK-plated Porsche now in the lead, failed to provide the narrow swath previously accorded our Policia M5. I tailgated as if being towed, our conjoined cars advancing in the left lane at no more than 10 mph until—

FIVE HUNDRED FEET RAMP RIGHT.

“Nine,
watch
.” The traffic lightened as we approached the exit. Spencer accelerated to 40. I waited for his car's nose to pass the point of commitment—the shoulderless ring road depriving him of his usual strategy, albeit in reverse—then
I
made the sharp right no longer available to him. “Good-bye, Mr. Bourne.”

“Hope this isn't another Team Polizei long cut. Schtaven reports…icons moving apart, equidistant from finish line. Do your thing, Aliray, and we can win this.”

“I've made mistakes, but I've never been called dumb. There's gonna be cops all over, so only hit the lights and sirens when I tell you!”

Two miles. Twenty blocks. Roman jaywalkers, twice as ambitious as New York's, were half as hard to spot at 60. Our inter-waypoint average, 135 20 minutes earlier, fell to 97, then 81, then 24. One mile. Roman red lights, half as well hooded from the sun as New York's, were twice as easy to run without guilt—especially when following similarly minded taxis.

TURN RIGHT.

“Via Giovanni Giolitti!” Nine yelled. “North, yes! Turn here! Half a mile from the finish!” I quarter-turned, spotted three police cars one block north, then continued west on Via Alfredo Cappellini. “Make your next right! Spencer's…our icons are too close to tell! Next right!”

“Okay, Magellan!” The next perpendicular street, Via Filippo Turati, went one way. South. One block west on Capellini would deliver us to Via Principe Amedeo, which ran north to the finish line, but at the intersection at which we were now stopped, a bright red-and-white sign indicated Capellini's directional reversal.

“Nine, we could run straight down this one block with the lights and sirens.”

“It's illegal.”

“So?” We and Rome survived, we turned right onto Amadeo, northbound, then—

“Nine! Is every one-way street in Rome only two blocks long??!?!”

“We're still a half mile away…Spencer's approaching the finish!”

“Wait! Look! Is this…a hospital zone? Yesss!!! Air horn! I gotta have more air horn!” I turned right, right, left, and nearly ran into a small white van blocking Via Enrico Cialdini's single lane. Nine gave them a blast of air horn. “Nine! Stop…is that…is that an ambulance?”

“Aliray,
no
country uses trucks that shitty.” The first of three frail old women stumbled out its side door, a paramedic emerging from the building to hand them walkers. “Oh no, oh man—”

“A wheelchair van.” I sighed. “A wheelchair van. I can't believe you air-horned a wheelchair van.”

“Er…maybe we should back up?”

“Nine, this is a one-way street.”

“I can't believe you just said that.”

“What if another wheelchair van comes up behind us?”

“Grazie!”
Nine called out, and waved at them as the van pulled away. “
Molto grazie! Molto grazie!
Termini Train Station ahead! Turn left! Eight blocks to finish line!”

“Cops on the right! Where's Spencer? Should I make a run for it?”

ONE QUARTER MILE BEAR LEFT AT ROUNDABOUT.

“Alex…he's five blocks from the finish! Rome cops don't care—” Our tires chirped before he could finish, the cop at the Alfa's wheel waving us on and yelling
“Pronto! Pronto!”
as we slipped through yet another crowd of jaywalkers.

FIVE HUNDRED FEET BEAR LEFT AT ROUNDABOUT.

“He's one block away!” Nine called out. I barreled into the Piazza Della Republica traffic circle, bore left—
against
counterclockwise traffic—to pass a bus, and spotted the Hotel Boscolo finish line 150 feet beyond the cars approaching us head-on four abreast. Nine ignored the phone ringing with what could only be bad news. I turned 160 degrees right, into the legal traffic flow, and grabbed the PA microphone to unleash what little Italian I'd studied for just such an occasion.
“PRONTO! PRONTO! ATTENZIONE! AVANZA! AVANZA!”

I sped to the outside lane, cut left perpendicular to another bus that would have killed us both had it screeched to a halt 12 inches farther, accelerated between two cars merging from the right, then turned right into the finish line parking lot, nearly killing a gorgeous miniskirted tourist who, in the belief we actually
were
the Barcelona Guardia Civil, ran in front of our car yelling “Guardia Civil?”

“I think we're second,” said Nine, looking around for the blue Porsche. I spotted Ross and Emma waving from the deck of the café overlooking the finish line, but I couldn't make out their expressions. A Gumball staffer ran up to Nine's window, and in breathless unison we asked the dreaded question.

“What number are we?”

He looked curious as to why we were asking. “You're…number one.”

We cheered and hugged, nearly tearing our seats off their rails. I was glad Spencer didn't see us, for when he arrived I owed him humble thanks. Without him I'd never have seen. I'd never have known. After I wiped my head with a towel brought by one of the hotel staffers watching in amusement, I requested two bottles of champagne and parked at the end of the hotel driveway, perfectly positioned to leave first the next morning. We joined Ross and Emma on the deck. Nine and I each drank three large bottles of water, then, at 3:45
P.M
., with no blue Porsche in sight precisely 15 minutes after our arrival, our reeking clothes forced us to request the bill.

“Per favore,”
I asked the concierge on the way upstairs, “please ask the valet to leave space next to the Guardia Civil BMW for a blue Porsche. He's a legend, and this bottle is for him.”

“Who shall I say it is from?”

“He'll know.”

HOTEL BOSCOLO—TAZIO BRASSERIE DECK
OVERLOOKING GUMBALL FINISH LINE
1630
HOURS (APPROX)

“Vous êtes fous!”
said our new and unexpectedly welcoming friend Greg Tunon, who switched to English upon seeing Nine's confusion. “Jon! How you and Alex Roy drive today is crazy. I know about this, I know about crazy.”