Питер Джеймс - Billionaire

He came around the next corner, in a rallying power-slide with his nose dug in and tail hanging so far out he was concerned he was going to put a wheel over the edge, and found himself heading straight into the midst of a family of six in hiking gear, spread across the road walking downwards. He stamped on the brakes and they jumped angrily out of the way, shouting and gesticulating: he accelerated off, and immediately came across another family around the next corner. He climbed up through some trees, and then the road turned back on itself in the sharpest hairpin he had yet come across. As he climbed the next stretch, the road dropped almost vertically away to his right; if he drove off the road now, he knew the car would drop several thousand feet and land right among the rooftops of Verbier. He concentrated fiercely on the road, half wondering whether he should stop at the next group of hikers he came to, but fearful that they would be powerless to do anything against the men in the Range Rover, particularly if, as he suspected, they were armed.

The road began getting worse, and the car pitched violently through two potholes; he prayed the suspension would hold. Luckily, the car he was in was strongly built and, being French, had a suspension system that could cope with these types of road; even so, he had to hold on with all his strength to the four-pronged steering wheel as it bucked and tried to tear itself out of his hands. There was a long straight incline now, and as the rev counter surged over the red line, he pushed the gear shift into second, and kept the accelerator hard on the floor. The speedometer raced up to the 100 kilometre mark. There was a fearsome bang and the car bounced violently up in the air, over the root of a tree and snaked wildly to the edge of the road; one wheel went over the edge, and Rocq was certain, as he held the accelerator resolutely to the floorboard and the steering wheel on full left lock, that the car was going over the edge. But somehow, the wheel came back onto the top, and he managed to steer the Renault back into the centre of the track.

There were two loud blasts, and around the corner ahead came a truck, travelling fairly fast for its size and the incline. Miraculously the road widened for a few yards and, so close to the edge that it was a matter of luck whether or not the offside wheels left the road or stayed on, he managed to scrape through; then he smiled. The truck must surely, he thought, block the Range Rover’s path. The hard angry blasts of hooting behind, the sound of grinding metal, then to his horror, only a hundred yards back, he could see in his mirror, the Range Rover surging down the road after him. It was catching him now. The track had become so rough his speed had dropped to 40 kilometres, and even so he was hard pushed to tell when it was the wheels or when it was the sump that was hitting the ground. The Renault bucked and crashed, and he knew something must break very soon.

He flung the Renault into the next bend: there was a hair-pin turn on a steep incline. The front wheels refused to grip and he began sliding backwards. He stamped on the foot-brake, shoved the gear into reverse, reversed the car a few yards down; then he slammed the gear lever into low and tried again, as gently as he could with his whole body trembling in fear. The Range Rover was almost on top of him. The tyres gripped this time, and he began to accelerate again. There was thick woodland on either side now, and the track was not improving. He had to slow down to take the next bend, and again the Range Rover loomed menacingly in his rear mirrors. There was a bang, and the Renault lurched forward, followed by another bang, which broke Rocq’s grip on the steering wheel, and flung him upwards, cracking his head on the roof, then forward so that he cracked it again on the windscreen.

Somehow, Rocq managed to round the corner. The track suddenly improved, and the Renault was able to out-accelerate the Range Rover up it. They approached another hairpin: he changed down into second, then, at the last moment, stamped hard on the brakes, pulled the gear lever back to low, wound the steering wheel tightly over and yanked the handbrake on as hard as he could. The back of the car slid round and, accelerating fiercely again, he released the brake. The car came out of the bend accelerating hard, and the Range Rover dropped even further back; then the road deteriorated back into rutted cart-track, and he had to slow right down.

There was another jarring crash, and the Renault started snaking, right, then left, then right; the steering wheel did not respond and he realized to his horror that he was being pushed. There was another hairpin coming up ahead, and he could see the end of the tree line just beyond it; down to the left was an awesome drop. He had less than a hundred yards to get the car steering again, or he was going to be pushed over for sure. He accelerated furiously, and suddenly the Renault started to pull away. Bouncing and lurching ferociously, he somehow got around the corner.

There was a closed gate ahead of him; he aimed at the centre and carried on accelerating hard. There was a loud cracking, barbed wire whipped at the windscreen and then he was through and as he rounded a gentle curve, he saw they were at the top of the mountain and in what was clearly a local beauty spot, judging by the fifteen or so cars that were parked there. One couple stuffing their faces with sandwiches, in a Mercedes saloon, waved brightly at him; he wondered whether to stop and scream for help, but the menacing nose of the Range Rover on his tail decided him against that. He began the descent down the other side of the mountain. He accelerated hard, then slammed on the brakes; the terrain was now loose gravel, and the car slid wildly down it; for a moment he was terrified they were going to slide straight over the side, but then they slowed down. At that moment, the Renault was hurled forward several feet by the Range Rover, which then rammed it again; somehow, he managed to accelerate away from it again.

He knew it could not be long before he ran out of petrol. They came to another closed gate, and again smashed through it. He slid the Renault sideways around another hairpin, to discover a massive lorry crawling up less than 200 yards below him. Right now he no longer cared about anything, nothing except getting away from the Range Rover. He was not going to stop, he did not dare to stop; he knew he was going to have to fit past that truck, and if he didn’t and died, then so be it. The driver flashed his lights and hooted angrily, but Rocq carried on racing down towards it, trying to size up in his mind on which side he had the best chance: to the right was a sheer drop; to the left, shrubbery and the hill slope. He picked the left. For a brief moment, he thought there was going to be enough room, and the side of the lorry began flashing past, inches to the right; then the Renault slipped down the bank and the offside of the car came into contact with the lorry. The noise was fearsome: the windows smashed out, there was a rending, renting, grinding, then suddenly the lorry was past, and there was empty road ahead of him.

He heard, over the noise of the truck’s exhaust, the sound of locked rubber sliding across cart-track, then a tremendous bang followed by a clattering sound, followed by a hollow clanging interspersed with the splintering of wood. He stopped. Through what had been his offside window, he saw a streak of beige drop past. He jumped out of the Renault, and ran to the side of the road. Two thousand feet below him, the Range Rover was rolling and bouncing, pirouetting like a tiny ballet dancer on a trampoline. He saw it hit a rock ledge and bounce upwards; its two doors, bonnet and tailgate flew open together, then it carried on plunging down, and disappeared from his view.