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“Cliff!” shrieks Carey, still cradling his arm. Thom sees Slone’s eyebrows pop up above the dark glasses, then descend. One hand leaps to the emergency brake.

The car turns around within a space barely wider than it is long, back wheels ending up perched on a fifty-foot precipice. The Hell’s Angels are five hundred feet away, hooting and whirling chains.

“We can ram them,” Slone says conversationally. “They’ll still kill us.”

“No,” Thom whispers. “Go it.”

For the first time, Slone grins.

This time the whip-round clips one tailfin, which flaps brokenly behind them as they soar out into suburban sky.