A refrigerated shipping truck blocked most of the road. There was only a half-meter-wide track to the left of the vehicle, running along the broken ledge. The driver had, as many did, pulled over and parked to wait out the storm, fearful that the road ahead might be too dangerous and he’d have better judgment in the morning. These assumptions were borne out as the obese driver, a ball cap perched on his head, leaned out from his cab and shouted in Spanish for Fisher to stop and seek cover.
But there, off to the left, was Rahmani, one hand on his handlebars, the other sliding along the truck’s side for balance as he finally reached the front bumper, gunned his engine, and was off again.
As Fisher slowed and carefully — breathlessly — guided his motorcycle around the back of the truck, coming alongside it, he reminded himself to keep his gaze on where he wanted to go. Don’t look down. Damn, the temptation was too great, and as he coasted forward, he flicked his glance to the left. Through chutes of rain and the swirling gloom, he saw how the edge of the cliff was just a hairsbreadth away and dropped off into nothingness. Just then, his front tire shoved through some loose rocks that tumbled over the side. Fisher’s heart was squarely in his throat.
Rahmani’s engine whined as he once again raced along the wall, creating a sizable gap. Tensing, Fisher pushed off the truck, reached the front bumper, then geared up and took off, popping a small and unintended wheelie as he did so. They were nearing La Cumbre Pass, the highest point along the road, which was followed by a breakneck descent all the way to Coroico.
After a final push at full throttle that brought Fisher within an estimated fifty meters of Rahmani, the road veered left, then pitched forward, and abruptly they were barreling toward the next set of hairpin turns.
Wanting to check his speed but fearful of averting his gaze for even a second, Fisher clutched the handlebars a little tighter but maintained speed. A pile of rocks off to his left sent him hard toward the wall once more, but he’d gone too far and was heading for the rock when he turned back and overcorrected. He was about to lose control but jerked once more and came out of the turn while dragging one boot along the ground.
Rahmani was weaving around the debris like a professional stuntman, his long black hair flailing in the wind. They dropped farther, swinging around as though on a roulette wheel until the road straightened out. Fisher thought he’d have a moment to speed up, but from a series of ledges above came torrents of heavy rain blasting down like a half dozen fire hoses running wide open.
Fisher wove around the first two columns of water, but the next one was falling far too close to the wall, driving him back to the outside and along the ledge once more. Here the ground was much more unstable; his back wheel felt mushy, and rocks tumbled into the ravine behind him. As he cleared the gauntlet, he swore aloud — because another lay before him:
A pair of waterfalls about three meters apart were raging down the cliff now, washing hard over the road and eating hungrily at the ledge. Rahmani, that suicidal maniac, muscled his bike right through the flow, getting kicked off to the side and nearly washed over before he slammed his wheel to the right and managed at the very last second to leap free with a high-pitched whine of his engine and sputter from his tires.
With a renewed resolve and drawing on a long career of taking risks that would leave most men weak-kneed and clutching their throats, Fisher rolled his wrist and blasted into the waterfall at top speed, assuring himself that his forward momentum was a greater force than the water but realizing at the last second that his assurances were bullshit. If he didn’t steer for the wall, he was dead.
For the span of three full heartbeats, he saw only the water, haloed in gloom and washing over him, until abruptly he broke free, smiled — and the bike slid out from beneath him. That he got his foot down before dumping was a small miracle, and he was able to kick up and right himself — just as his handlebar began dragging along the wall, a few sparks flickering. He leaned into his next turn and reached a stretch of more level ground.
Rahmani was far below now, having already negotiated the next hairpin, his headlight like a firefly, tiny against the colossal skyscrapers of rock.
But just ahead of him, lumbering downhill like a tortoise, was another pair of lights, and for just a moment the vehicle’s silhouette appeared: a sedan, probably a taxi, whose driver was either carrying a very high-paying fare or was desperate to get home despite the weather. At any rate, that driver was suddenly Fisher’s best buddy. If the road remained as narrow as it presently was, Rahmani would either lose time trying to pass the taxi or find himself stuck behind it — with Fisher roaring up behind him.
Riding a new rush of adrenaline, Fisher set about taking the hairpin turn as swiftly and violently as he could, letting his left foot drag as he flung himself into the curve, wishing he had a dedicated race bike so he could brush his knee along the mud. He spun out again, nearly lost it, then drifted his way to a straight course and began sewing up the gap.
One of the road’s few surviving signs — most of them had been struck by drivers and flattened or smashed off the cliff — indicated another sharp turn ahead. Fisher took a deep breath and held it. Bringing himself as close to the wall as he dared and locking his gaze on his headlight’s meager beam, he soared around the turn, losing a bit of traction before easing up and letting the bike guide him into the corner. The old Yamaha was a true piece of crap, but she was growing on him now, his gear shifts a little more intuitive, the sounds of the motor communicating speed much more clearly.
Rahmani drew up fast on the taxi, and a second glance there showed he was trapped behind it. Fisher gritted his teeth and remained tight to the wall, his speed nearly twice that of Rahmani’s. The cabdriver had to be confronting his own mortality, and for a moment, Rahmani looked back, his face cast in the pallid glow of Fisher’s light. His eyes bugged out as he realized he’d failed to lose Fisher and was seconds away from being caught.
A faint thrumming of rotors sent Fisher’s gaze skyward. Then another sound erupted, a large diesel engine, an engine much louder than the taxi’s.
They were nearing another sharp turn to the right, and abruptly it was there: an old Volvo F6 delivery truck from the 1970s, its daredevil of a driver taking up the entire road and rumbling head-on toward the taxi.
The truck driver locked up his brakes, as did the cabdriver, but their tires had little traction across the sheets of rain and mud.
“Sam, we’re back online, target locked on with FLIR, and Briggs is inbound,” came a familiar voice through the nickel-sized subdermal embedded behind his ear.
Fisher wasn’t wearing the subvocal transceiver, or SVT, patch on his throat, so he couldn’t respond, but that hardly mattered.
The truck and taxi collided in a thundering, screeching explosion of twisting metal and fiberglass and shattering glass that stole his breath and sent debris hurtling toward him.
The taxi’s front end crushed as though it were made of papier-mâché, and the truck kept coming, plowing the taxi back with the front wheels rising off the dirt.
Rahmani had no time to react. He screamed and struck the sedan’s rear bumper. His front wheel folded like a taco as the bike slid sideways, and in the next second he caromed off the rear window and vanished beneath the vehicle—
Into the meat grinder.
The squealing and gurgling and crunching of metal grew to a crescendo as Fisher cursed and steered for the barest of openings on the left side, trying to skirt around the bulldozing truck. He swore again because the taxicab with Rahmani beneath began sliding toward the ledge, cutting him off. He crashed into the taxi and flew headfirst over the handlebars, went tumbling across the cab’s trunk, and then the force of the Volvo’s momentum sent him rolling off the side of the sedan.