The keys weren’t locked up. Some were hanging on the wall, others were literally sitting in the driver’s seat. I was pretty sure that’s what von Oehson was saying. It was still hard to hear him over the engine as we redlined past a twenty-five miles per hour speed limit sign. The trees, other houses, everything was a blur as we approached the end of the street. His right foot was nowhere near the brake. Stop sign? What stop sign?
Also, where the hell are we going?
That question got pushed to the back burner as I leaned forward to catch the angle of my side view mirror. “Here he comes,” I said.
Von Oehson glanced over his shoulder. “Damn.”
“What?”
“He took the Stradale,” he said.
I knew my cars, but not all of them. I gave another look back, staring mostly at high beams. “Is that also a Ferrari?”
“Yep.”
“What model did you say?”
“An SF90 Stradale.”
“What model is this?” I asked.
“An 812 Superfast.”
“Tell me that means it’s faster.”
“Nope.”
Seriously? Not only were we being chased by one of von Oehson’s own cars, it was an even faster one. This wasn’t Ford versus Ferrari. This was Ferrari versus Ferrari.
“Look out!” I yelled.
There were two SUVs crossing in front of us at a four-way intersection. Von Oehson swerved but never slowed, threading the needle as he zipped between them. The only thing louder than their horns blaring at us was the sound of our would-be assassin slamming on his brakes.
“Turns!”
“What?” he asked.
“Turns! Start making turns!”
We’d bought ourselves a gap, a few seconds of spacing. Now it was all about sight lines and geometry. Right and left angles were our friends. Any straightaway was our enemy.
Von Oehson nodded. He got it. He’d also ponied up for a few Skip Barber Racing School lessons, apparently, because his turns were near flawless. Trail brake, late apex, full throttle. One corner after another and then another. Lather, rinse, repeat.
We were losing the guy. But that wasn’t the same as having lost him.
I looked at von Oehson when he bypassed the next turn, continuing straight. “What are you doing?”
“There’s a road up ahead on the right that leads to I-95,” he said, with another glance at his rearview mirror. “He’s nowhere in sight.”
“We need to keep it that way. Hold off on the turnpike.”
“Why? Now’s our chance. We can shake him for good.”
Von Oehson was famous for being able to see around corners. But it was only a figure of speech. Before I could explain, he took the right turn. It was definitely the wrong one.
“Shit!” he said immediately.
Exactly. What makes a professional killer good at his job? He thinks like his prey. Those same high beams that had been right on our tail were now staring us right in the face. He was about fifty yards away, idling right smack in the middle of the road. Waiting.
Von Oehson instinctively reached to put us in reverse but he was wrong again. I grabbed his wrist to stop him.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“It’s what you’re going to do,” I said. “Gun it!”