Word Count: 100
Going so fast that tires have quit squealing on the corners; they just groan on the turns. Steering wheels gone sticky under my white-knuckles grip. To make things more interesting, bullets rip through the rags of my rear windshield.
We roar down deserted roads. Hes driving to kill, but I know this stretch and I know hes not about to slow down.
I stand on the brakes and the whole car spins, slewing me around in time to see his car trailing smoke and curses diving over the bank and into the gorge.
This isnt my favorite kind of race.