Turning Point by Barbara Spencer Page A

limousine performed a U-turn, the approaching cars bursting into movement the moment the lights hit green – burned rubber flying into the air from their tyres.
    Hastily Scott screwed his eyes shut, his brain somehow taking its own decision that it might also be sensible to stop breathing because, at any second, there would be a fierce crunching of metal, followed by a blow that would knock him sideways. Startled, he hit the window frame with his other shoulder. His eyes flew open, to see the bonnet of a car sliding helplessly towards them. All around, mayhem spread as quickly as an infectious disease. Car horns broke into furious alarm calls, matched only by a screaming of tyres as brakes came into action, like the screeching of monkeys sirening an alarm call at the approach of a predator. Close by, Scott caught the loud bang as a car, unable to stop in time, tailgated the one in front. The lurching faded away and the engine cut back to a satisfied purr. He glanced down at his legs and arms, surprised to find them still in one piece. On the far side of the street, separated now by a strip of raised paving, Scott spotted the brown Peugeot, the driver impotently thumping his horn, his head turned to watch them drive past. A loud report struck the air, like a series of strident backfires, and gravel smacked into the window next to Scott. Automatically, he ducked.
    â€˜What the hell…?’
    â€˜They’re shooting at us, sir,’ the chauffeur said into the rear mirror. ‘A bit rash, don’t you think, in the centre of Geneva. Lucky though, it gets us off the hook nicely.’ He waved an arm at the traffic, fast backing up. ‘Plenty of witnesses.’
    â€˜You okay, Scott?’
    Scott felt Tulsa’s arm on his shoulder and raised his head. ‘I forgot it was bullet-proof,’ he admitted, a little shamefaced.
    Tulsa grinned affectionately. ‘I promise you, ducking is something all sensible people do. Besides it’s a knee-jerk reaction, like blinking, nothing to do with bravery at all.’ In the distance, sirens wailed. ‘That was fast.’ Again, he pulled out his mobile, quickly dialling. ‘Can you get someone to trace a Peugeot?’ He reeled off the licence plate. Scott heard the words. ‘I doubt you’ll get anything, its occupants will be long gone by the time the police arrive.’
    Scott peered at the pockmarked window, star-shaped ridges of chipped glass smeared right across it in a neat line level with his head. Okay, so ducking was self-preservation but did that also account for his heart? He felt it pounding away, beating like a drummer in a rock band as if it wanted to break through his chest wall. He caught the words, ‘no idea’ before Tulsa closed the connection.
    â€˜Terry asked if you stuck your tongue out at them.’
    Scott pulled a face. ‘He was joking, wasn’t he?’
    â€˜The boss joke – never.
Did you
?’
    â€˜No!’ Scott exclaimed indignantly. ‘I looked out of the window – that’s all. Why?’
    â€˜Because this is Geneva.’
    â€˜But I’ve had people firing at me before.’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜At the motel in Birmingham…’ Scott stopped, glancing once again at the damaged window. ‘I see what you mean. High-speed car chases with bullets flying are only supposed to happen in movies – not in civilised countries like Switzerland. I promise you
,
I only caught sight of the car for a split second.’ He noticed their driver staring at him through the mirror and shrugged apologetically. ‘Besides, it’s my dad they want, not me. But thanks,’ he produced a sickly grin leaning forward, ‘you were amazing. Where did you learn to drive like that?’
    â€˜Goes with the job – manoeuvring a limo like this one is child’s play,’ the man replied. ‘It’s the traffic and lights you need to learn about.