Dance Of Death

Ahead were signs for Interstate 95 and the George Washington Bridge. "Brace yourself, Mr. Smithback," Pendergast said over the roar of the engine and the screaming of wind.

Smithback seized a door handle, planted his feet on the plastic floor mats. He was so frightened he could hardly think.

Traffic had begun to thicken as the two-lane exit approached, one stream of cars heading for the bridge and New Jersey, the other heading eastward toward the Bronx. Pendergast slowed, alternatelywatching the traffic ahead and the Mercedes in the rearview mirror. Then, seizing an opportunity, he sheared across all four lanes of traffic onto the right shoulder. A squeal of brakes and a torrent of angry horns erupted, Doppler-shifting lower as Pendergast jammed on the accelerator again, blasting up the narrow shoulder, sending loose trash and hubcaps flying behind them.

"Holy shit!" Smithback yelled.

Ahead, the shoulder narrowed, the curb of the median angling in from the right. But instead of slowing, Pendergast pushed the car relentlessly forward. The tires on the passenger side reared up onto the curb and the vehicle charged ahead at an unwieldy angle, rocking crazily back and forth, tires squealing, the stone wall of the exit perilously close at hand.

From behind came the faint wail of a siren.

Pendergast braked abruptly, then turned into a brutal, four-wheel power slide, just merging into a hole in the traffic converging on the Trans-Manhattan Expressway. He changed lanes once-so fast Smithback was thrown sideways on the seat-twice, a third time, darting back and forth, all the while accelerating. The car blasted along beneath the hulking apartments like a bullet through the barrel of a gun.

A quarter mile ahead, a sea of red lights winked back out of the gloom as traffic bunched up in the inevitable gridlock of the Cross Bronx Expressway. The right-hand lane was blocked off by orange cones, signs a

Smithback glanced back. The black Mercedes was still there, no more than six cars back, pacing them despite all Pendergast could do. Much farther behind now were two police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing.

Suddenly, Smithback was thrown to one side. Pendergast had abruptly veered onto the off-ramp for the Harlem River Drive. Instead of slowing, he maintained a speed close to a hundred miles an hour. With a shriek of stressed rubber, the car drifted sideways, its flank contacting the stone retaining wall that encircled the ramp.

There was a scream of ripping steel, and an explosion of sparks flew backward.

"Son of a bitch! You're going to kill-!"

Smithback's voice was cut off as Pendergast braked violently once again. With a bucking motion, the car shot over a divider onto the opposing entrance helix to a small bridge spa

Heart in mouth, Smithback glanced once again over his shoulder. Impossibly, the Mercedes was still there, farther back now but gaining once again. Even as he watched, the driver's window of the Mercedes opened and there was a sudden puff of smoke, followed by the crack of a gunshot.

With a thunk!, the passenger side mirror vanished in a spray of glass and plastic, a

"Shit!" Smithback screamed.

"Get down," Pendergast said, but Smithback was already on the floor, hands over his head.

From this position, the nightmare was even worse: unable to see anything, Smithback could only imagine the chaos of the chase, the violent changes of direction, the screeching of tires, the roar of the engine, the blaring of horns, snatches of cursing in English and Spanish. And above it all, the ever-growing wail of police sirens. Again and again, he was thrown forward against the undersupports of the front seat as Pendergast braked violently; again and again, he was thrown back as the agent accelerated.

After a few endless minutes, Pendergast spoke again. "I need you to get up, Mr. Smithback. Do so carefully."

Smithback rose, gripping the seat. The car was racing along a wide avenue through an impoverished barrio of the Bronx, darting from left to right. Instinctively, he glanced over his shoulder. In the distance, he could see the Mercedes still pacing them, swerving back and forth among slow-moving delivery vans and lowriders. Farther back were strung out at least half a dozen police cars.

"We're going to be stopping in a moment," Pendergast said. "It is imperative that you follow me out of the car as quickly as possible."

"Follow-?" Smithback was so terrorized his mind had stopped working.

"Just do as I say, please. Stay right behind me. Right behind me. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Smithback croaked.

Ahead, the road ended in a vast fence of barbed wire and metal pipe, interrupted only by a heavy gate directly before them. The fence enclosed at least five acres of cars, SUVs, and vans, squeezed impossibly close to one another, extending from one end of the fence to the other, a sea of vehicles, all makes and models and vintages. They were all packed so tightly not even a scooter could get between them. Atop the gate was a battered sign that read Division of Motor Vehicles-Mott Haven Impound Facility.

Pendergast plucked a small remote control from one pocket and punched a code onto its keypad. Slowly, the gate began to open. When Pendergast did not reduce speed, Smithback clasped the door handle again and clenched his teeth.

The car blew past the gate with an inch to spare and, with a shuddering squeal of brakes, spun sideways and stopped at the wall of cars. Without bothering to turn off the engine, Pendergast leaped out and took off, with a brusque wave for Smithback to follow. The reporter tumbled out of the backseat and dashed after Pendergast, who was already ru

It was close to a half-mile sprint to the rear wall of the impound facility. At last, Pendergast stopped at the final row of vehicles, which were parked a few dozen yards in from the rear of the yard, blocked by the same heavy steel pipe fence. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked a battered Chevy van parked in the last row and gestured for Smithback to get in the back. Pendergast leaped behind the wheel, turned the key, and the van roared to life.

"Hold on," he said. Then he put the van in gear and shot forward, accelerating directly toward the pipe fence.

"Wait," Smithback said. "You'll never bash through that fence. We'll be-oh, shit!" He turned away, shielding his face from the inevitable catastrophic impact.

There was a loud clang; a brief jolt; but the van was still accelerating forward. Smithback raised his head and lowered his arms, heart pounding, and looked back. He saw that a section of the fence had been knocked away, leaving a clean rectangular hole in its place.

"The metal pipes had already been cut, then spot-welded back into place," Pendergast said by way of explanation, driving more slowly now, making a number of turns through a warren of side streets while removing his wig and wiping the stage makeup from his face with a silk handkerchief. The black Mercedes and the police cars were gone. "Help me with this."