The overhead lights were dim, casting a sickly glow that barely illuminated a hundred meters of road ahead. The danger of driving at this speed multiplied instantly.
A voice message came through from Gretchen.
"Clarence, I'm giving you one last chance. Pull over right now and go take the blame for Cecil!"
My hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I roared back at her.
"You can't stop in a goddamn tunnel, Gretchen!"
She didn't respond. Instead, the Ferrari's engine screamed as she floored the accelerator, pulling away from me in seconds.
Before I could even process what was happening, I caught movement in my peripheral vision. Cecil, behind the wheel of his truck in the next lane, was grinning. A slow, sinister grin.
He slammed on the gas and wrenched the steering wheel to the left.
The truck's cab crossed the lane divider and invaded my lane.
The realization hit me like ice water: he was going to use the truck to pin my car.
There wasn't enough time to accelerate and escape. But if I braked, the body of his truck would sideswipe me, and if I ended up wedged underneath the trailer, I'd be dead on impact.