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With a few feet left, I brake and yank the handbrake. We pop out of the road, sliding in a straight line on bald tyres. Jacobsen flashes past, but the Beetle clips the Mustang’s rear end. I spin the wheel and careering sideways to a stop against the wall of the studio building.
It's a heavy shunt, but these old German cars are built like tanks and the clip on the Mustang is just enough to spin him around.
It's too late for Jacobsen to control the spin. He slams side-on into a stop sign pole. He tries to pull away, but the pole digs into the bodywork of the car, the sound of metal crunching.
I see his front passenger door open. I unclip my seatbelt, unbuckle Naomi's and push her door open. She sits there frozen. Shaking. I harass her out of the passenger door.
"Stay with the car," I
