“He’s gaining on us,” shouted Siobhan, who’d also spun around to gawk at the crazed man on the motorcycle.

Isabl bobbed and weaved the sporty convertible through the thick traffic clogging New York City’s main artery. The motorcycle was able to zig and zag and match her every move.

“Isabl?” cried Max. “Do you have a mobile infrared transmitter?”

“You mean a traffic signal pre-emptor?” said Charl. “Those are illegal.”

“Not for emergency vehicles,” said Max. “And, if you ask me, this is an emergency.”

“And this is a vehicle,” said Isabl. She reached down and grabbed a small black box mounted on suction cups. She slapped it against the windshield and flicked a switch. The box started whirring and clicking.

“What the blazes is that?” shouted Siobhan as the convertible roared and screamed down Broadway, approaching a red light.

“A twelve-volt-powered strobe light that can change traffic signals from red to green at a distance of fifteen hundred feet,” explained Max.

“Get out,” said Tisa. “That’s impossible.”

The light turned green.

“Mobile infrared transmitters were invented more than twenty years ago,” explained Max as best she could over the rush of wind that sent her mop of curls bouncing like a wild clump of inflatable air dancers outside a used car lot. “MITs were created so emergency personnel in ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks could get where they needed to be faster.”

Another light switched from red to green.

“Isn’t science fun?” said Siobhan with a laugh.

One by one, the traffic lights down Broadway obeyed the strobing commands of Isabl’s device.

“All right,” said Max. “We have our uninterrupted forward momentum. Now we just have to use it to take care of this guy behind us.”

“I have an idea,” said Charl, reaching into his black commando jacket.

“We can’t shoot him, you fool eejit!” said Siobhan. “We’re surrounded by innocent civilians.”

“We don’t need a gun or bullets,” said Max. “We have these!”

She reached into the large paper sack from Burger King.

“Cheeseburgers?” said Tisa.

“Double Whoppers with cheese,” said Charl.

“Perfect,” said Max. “Force equals mass times acceleration.”

“You want me to accelerate?”

“Nope. Just keep it steady.”

Isabl kept the swerving to a minimum as the traffic lights strung across the Broadway intersections continued to change from red to green.

“Unwrap your ammunition,” said Max, handing a Whopper to Tisa and Siobhan. “Remove the top bun. Line up your shot.”

The motorcycle guy rocked his wrist and gave his whining engine all the gas it could guzzle.

“Here he comes!” shouted Tisa. “He’s gaining on us.”

“Wait for it,” Max urged calmly. “Wait for it.”

The motorcycle was only ten feet behind the convertible. The rider reached down into his belt.

“He has a weapon!” shrieked Tisa.

“So do we!” shouted Max. “Fire at will!”

The three sloppy cheeseburgers went flying backward.

Two of the flying cheeseburgers were direct hits. They smacked the motorcycle man, who wasn’t wearing a helmet, right in his face. Their sticky all-beef patties became meaty blindfolds cheese-glued to his eyes. Not able to see where he was going, the motorcycle rider swerved into a skid and, sliding sideways, slammed into a fire hydrant, where he wiped out with a bounce and a rolling tumble.

“His bike’s down but he’s up on his feet,” said Tisa, as the convertible continued to streak down Broadway. “He’s okay.”

“So are we!” said Siobhan.

“For now,” said Max. “They’ll come after us again. No place in New York is safe.”

Charl turned around to face the three geniuses in the backseat. “And that’s why, the next time the Corp tries to grab you, you guys won’t be here.”