Free Torque by Glenn Muller

The greater engine speed of the higher gear gave the
illusion of traveling faster, which made it easier to stay within
the speed limit. Still, the nervous energy he’d kept reined in now
began to manifest itself and, between checking his mirror every few
seconds and adjusting his seat, he stabbed at the radio buttons
trying to find something to match his mood.
    Commercials. Stab. Country. Stab. Rap crap.
Stab. Praise the Lord. Stab.
    Opting for the hiss of wet tires and the
metronome beat of the wipers he settled into ejecting cigar ash, a
millimeter at a time, through the small gap in the window. A single
set of headlights, sedan wide, appeared about a half a block back.
No telltale reflections off roof bars or any other feature
suggested it was a cop following him; nonetheless, Svoljsak’s rules
for self-preservation prescribed a random turn at the next
intersection.
    The little import had been left for him at a
shopping mall with the ignition already rigged and the security
guard uniform on the front seat. He’d almost given up the job right
there; not because getaway cars are invariably stolen, that was
standard practice, but because size invariably matters. Decent wheels have big doors, a wide stance for strength and
stability, and most importantly pack some muscle under the hood.
Dark blue, black, or green is a good colour choice. White, even
dirty white with rust stains on the hatch, is not.
    He’d briefly contemplated boosting something
more substantial but the mall lot was busy and time was short. A
quick test drive assured him that the aged gerbils under the flimsy
hood would still hop on their treadmill when asked, and that a
sprint or two remained in their tiny legs.
    Getting into Simedyne had been a cinch, the
resident guard had scarcely reacted to the new face. Stan had only
been the second replacement he’d worked with that month.
    He drove on. The car behind was still there,
had even closed up a little since his random turn. At the
intersection ahead a flashing ‘Do Not Walk’ sign indicated an
imminent light change. He adjusted speed to catch the light as it
turned from amber to red, and then accelerated. The headlights in
the mirror tilted briefly upwards, a sure sign that the other
driver had also hit the gas.
    Svoljsak turned left, cutting the corner. He
signaled only to cover his ass in case his pursuer was indeed a cop
in an unmarked car, then put more pressure on the accelerator. The
headlights behind came around the corner with speed and continued
to close the gap.
    He reached over and turned the latch on the
glove box. The lid dropped and a bubblepack envelope slid onto it.
Empty and with a blank label, it was to be his back-up courier
should there be complications. Steering with his knees he took the
CD case from the bag on the passenger seat. He put it in the
envelope and then put the package in the glove box and snapped it
shut.
    Industrial secrets are worth a good price, he
thought, and more if there’s danger involved. He had always
intended to up the ante. The only question was by how much?
    He sat back just as the silvery-blue glare of
the sedan’s lights slid from the rear-view mirror to his side-view
mirror. The sedan roared forward to sit even with him in the next
lane. Svoljsak held his speed and looked over at the vehicle on his
wing. The passenger window was down. Light glinted off a metal tube
and he could see into the small circular opening on the end of it.
Not good.
    He punched the gas, then with both feet
hammered on the brakes. The move could well have been his last but
the guy riding shotgun was thrown off his aim when the sedan also
lurched ahead then braked. The sawn-off weapon belched fire and
sent a sparking hail of shrapnel across the hood of Svoljsak’s
car.
    Both vehicles screeched to a halt askew in
their lanes, Svoljsak’s a full length behind the other car and
beside the crosswalk of a side street. The gun withdrew and the
shooter’s boot shoved open the