“That’s what you think,” he said.

I felt this monstrous downshift and Champ’s Ducati slid into the intersection – and hairpinned sharply to the left.

I think my stomach was left somewhere behind. We were leaning so low, my jeans scraped against the pavement. We barely managed to avoid a head-on with a Lexus driven by some tourist with his bug-eyed family.

All of a sudden we were zigzagging down Cocoanut.

“How’s that for an exit, mate?” Geoff flashed back a grin.

It was as if we had jumped through the woods on some ski trail, and now we were on another trail, skiing against the flow. I looked around for a cop, exhaling with relief that one wasn’t in sight. Then I looked behind. The Hummer had screeched to a stop at the intersection. I thought for sure he’d yank a right and get out of there. But he didn’t! He swerved to the left – and was coming after us again.

“Jesus,” I shouted, squeezing Champ’s ribs, “he’s still on us!”

“Damn” – he shook his head – “those bastards have no respect for the law.”

He pressed the throttle, but now we were coming up on Palm Beach ’s busiest shopping street, Worth Avenue. We slowed for half a second.

“Always wanted to try this…” Champ gunned the bike again.

He jerked the Ducati to the left. Suddenly we were heading up Worth Avenue. Against traffic.

The wrong way!

THIS WAS THE craziest yet!

We were zigzagging through oncoming cars, swerving out of people’s way. Tourists and other shoppers on the sidewalk pointed as if it were some kind of show. We cut between two cars, people pointing, their heads craning. I was praying I didn’t hear the sound of a police siren.

We dodged a man loading an SUV, then sideswiped an antique pedestal. It shattered into pieces on the ground. Oh shit…We drove past the Phillips Galleries. I glanced behind. Amazingly, the Hummer had made the turn and was still behind us, horn blaring madly against anyone blocking the way. It was as if the driver knew he had immunity if he got caught.

“Champ, we have to get out of here,” I said. “Get off this street.”

He nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”

We made a sharp right, zipping into an entrance to the Poincietta Country Club. I glanced behind. The Hummer had made its way through the obstacle course of traffic. It was still following us.

Champ hit the accelerator and we picked up speed, approaching a golf course. Through hedges I could see golfers on a fairway. The Hummer was still closing.

I gripped Champ’s waist. “I’m up for ideas.”

“How’s your golf game, buddy?”

“My what?”

“Hold on!” He jerked the Ducati at a sharp right angle, sparks slashing up from the pavement. We blasted right through an opening in the hedges, branches whipping my face.

Suddenly we were off the road and in the middle of a perfectly manicured golf fairway!

Ten yards in front of us some poor guy with a five iron was about to play his shot to the green.

“Sorry, playing through!” Champ shouted as the Ducati sped past. Two golf partners in a cart looked on, as if they were in someone else’s crazy nightmare. Maybe they were. “Dogleg a bit to the right,” Geoff said. “I’d play a fade.”

He crossed the wide emerald green fairway, the Ducati picking up speed, every golfer standing agog. I yelled, “Champ, are you crazy, man?”

Suddenly we slipped through another hedge and were in the middle of someone’s backyard. There was a beautiful pool, a cabana, and a startled woman in a bathing suit reading on a chaise longue.

“Sorry,” Geoff said, waving as we weaved by, “wrong turn. Carry on.”

The gal immediately reached for a cell phone. I knew that in about two minutes the Hummer was going to be the least of our worries. The Palm Beach police would be on our tail. Whatever element of slapstick comedy this scene had was fading into full-fledged panic, fast – very fast.

We ducked through another opening in a hedge and emerged on South County. “All clear,” Geoff said with a wink. No way the Hummer could follow us.

Problem was, the island of Palm Beach is parallel to an inlet, and if you happened to be running from certain death, there are only a few ways off. We headed toward the South Bridge. I figured we were safe now, unless someone radioed the bridge. We passed a few mansions. Dennis Stratton’s house, too. I was starting to exhale.

Then I glanced behind.

Oh, man!

The Hummer was back on our tail. And so was a black Mercedes. Only this time it was worse. Way worse. A projectile zipped by my ear with this piercing whine. Then another.

The bastards were shooting at us.

I clutched Champ tightly by the waist. “Geoff, hit it!”

“Aheadaya, mate!”

The Ducati jerked, righted itself, then blasted forward into some kind of kited-up supergear.

We shot by more big-time mansions, the wind and the salt from the ocean breeze lashing at my eyes. I saw the speedometer hit ninety, a hundred, a hundred ten…one twenty. We both tucked our bodies as far forward as we could. Face to the metal, ass in the air. We put some distance between us and the two cars.

Finally we approached the end of a brief straightaway. Trump’s place, Mar-a-Lago, was on our right. We rounded a steep curve, and then…

The South Bridge was in sight.

I took a last look behind. The Hummer was about a hundred yards back. We were going to be okay.

Then I felt the Ducati go into a giant downshift. I heard Geoff yell, “Oh, shit!”

I looked forward and I couldn’t believe it.

A Boston Whaler was putt-putting its way up the Intercoastal. My heart was going putt-putt, too – only really fast.

The bridge was going up.

THE BRIDGE BELL was clanging. The guardrail was already going down. A line of cars and gardeners’ trucks was starting to back up.

The Hummer was coming up behind us.

We had seconds to decide what to do.

Geoff slowed, falling in at the end of a line of cars. The Hummer slowed as well, seeing that we were squeezed in – caught.

We could do a 180 and try to get past them, but they had guns. Maybe we could zip around the circle and head farther south, past Sloan’s Curve, but there was no way off the island until past Lake Worth, miles.

“Okay,” I yelled over the sputtering bike. “I’m taking ideas here, Geoff.”

But he had already made up his mind. “Hold on,” he said, staring ahead, gassing the engine hard. “Tight!”

My eyes widened as I saw what he had in mind. “You know what you’re doing?”

“Sorry, buddy” – he glanced behind one more time – “this one’s new even for me…”

He jerked the Ducati out of line and gunned the huge bike forward, right under the guardrail. My stomach started to crawl up toward my throat. The bridge was opening now. First a couple of feet, then five, ten.

The bike started to climb up the slowly rising platform. “Stay bloody low!” Geoff yelled.

We zoomed up the ramp with the engine blasting, the g-force slamming my ribs. I had no idea how much space separated us from the other side of the bridge. I was tucked into a crouch, and I was praying.

We lifted off the edge of the road and into the air at about a sixty-degree angle. I don’t know how long we stayed airborne. I kept my face pressed to Geoff’s back, expecting to feel some out-of-control, spinning panic, then free fall, and finally the crash that would separate my body into parts.

But all there was, was this amazing sensation. How a bird must feel – soaring, gliding, weightless. No sound. Then Champ’s voice, whooping: “We’re going to make it!”

I opened my eyes just in time to see the tip of the oncoming bridge coming toward us, and we cleared it, our front wheel perfectly elevated. We careened off the pavement, my stomach lurching. I expected to fly off and braced for the crash, but Geoff held the landing.