scarab
convertible would be out of sight in a matter of moments.He sprinted after Moon’s car. It trailed away, shrinking into a distinctive pair of taillights in the distance. Harris had to have a car, and fast.
He crossed into the roadway, glancing back. Two cars back was a low-slung roadster, a gleaming black. Harris put on a burst of speed, crossed the lane empty of oncoming traffic, and made a leap for the roadster.
He landed clean on the running board and grabbed the top of the door.
The car was filled with kids—they looked like they were barely in college years, two boys and three girls, ranging from very fair to nut-brown, all dressed up in eye-poking colors. They all wore identical straw hats with red hatbands and looked at him wide-eyed.
“I’m with the Sidhe Foundation,” Harris said. The cliché was out of his mouth before he could check it: “Follow that car.”
Their sudden, united cheer startled him; he almost fell off into the street.
Doc, in his roadster, kept two cars back from Angus Powrie’s taxi. That massive green vehicle, shaped something like a giant scarab beetle, headed south on King’s Road, keeping a steady pace. Then it turned left onto Island Way, the highway that crossed the Island Bridge, and put on a burst of speed.
Doc shook his head. Powrie, canny after decades in the criminal life, had to have spotted him. The redcap wouldn’t be leading him anywhere. Doc pulled the too-warm blond wig off, dropping it on the seat beside him, then accelerated and whipped around the car ahead of him.
The cab’s wheels screamed as it turned right, too sharply, and disappeared behind a long residential building. Doc sent his more maneuverable roadster into a tighter turn and got the cab in sight again. It was accelerating, a straight-line run past cross-street after cross-street.
Doc stood on the accelerator and gained on it. Within a block, he was on the taxi’s bumper. He made sure his automatic