James
Kirch sets off at wheel-skidding speed in Michael’s stolen car towards the swarm of police and medical vehicles. Brakes and tyres screeching, he skirts past, blasts his horn and shouts something out through the window at a pair of harmless cops leaning back against their car sharing something that steams from a flask.
I can’t pick out the words, but whatever it is, the two jolt to attention, jump into their car and go screaming after him, quickly followed by others.
Baxter snorts and chuckles.
“You’ve done this before,” I comment to Klempner, keeping my face straight.
“You have no idea…”
Only Michael doesn’t raise a smile, staring down at his hands. Klempner turns on the engine. “Which way?”
His voice is dead. "Um… back the way we came, a couple of hundred yards. There used to
