They'd tracked us from the left side of the trap and got far enough ahead to set up the ambush and I knew now that the station-wagon had jammed its brakes on to try for the pincer but reserved the option of pushing me into the side street if I got clear. They'd decided not to waste any more time: the pincer depends on mobility, but now they wanted to make sure I stopped, and the ambush would do that for them.

The speed felt like a rising fifty and I slowed at once. The Mercedes and the pick-up truck didn't leave any room on either side for me to get through; I couldn't see anyone moving anywhere, but the Mercedes had still been rocking on its springs when I'd swung into this street so there hadn't been time for them to get out: they were crouched below window level and waiting for me to stop.

Beyond the two vehicles I could see the flat sheen of the Han River, quite close, with a street running parallel with it on this bank. If I could do anything at all I'd have to reach the bridge, but the chances were thin.

I was sitting in my own sweat now with the full headlights of the Porsche closing on me from behind and throwing the shadow of the ZX against the flat grey sides of the pick-up ahead of me.

Feeling of intense anger again, but there were compensations: this was a better way to go than most and what you find yourself hoping for is an effective shot into the brain so that you can simply phase out, with no final thoughts of guilt -

I shouldn't have let them snare me into anything so simple — and shame — mission unaccomplished, executive deceased.

Still slowing, as they would expect me to. Slowing, with the shapes of the Mercedes and the pick-up looming quite close now.

A sudden blizzard inside the ZX as they blew out the rear window with a silenced shot: glass snow everywhere, flying at the back of my head and the inside of the windscreen. I slumped lower in the seat and turned my own headlights full on so that I could work out the options better: there were only two; I could let them proceed with the kill or I could try ramming.

Slowing to something like twenty, to let them think I wouldn't be giving them any trouble.

Then I hit the brakes hard and we were into the storm as the Porsche rammed into the rear of the ZX and they began shunting. An awful lot of noise now from the final drive couplings and metal hitting metal but they were still using the silencer and a shot ploughed into the windscreen frame above my head as if they'd simply thrown a stone. I thought the glare was less now from their lights: it had been quite an effective impact when I'd braked, and one of their lamps must have gone. I didn't know what the speed was now, but it didn't matter very much: linear thinking was phasing out as the organism realised the need to survive. Linear thought: the idea is to ram the stationary obstacle and the best place to go for is the rear wheel because that end is lighter in a front-engined vehicle; you don't rely on your momentum to create the necessary force: you've got to do it on an acceleration curve with the power building up as you go. First gear, foot hard down, take aim at the target.

Then I stopped thinking because the conscious doesn't stand a chance against the powers of the subconscious when the living creature reaches the edge of life and makes its decisions according to the laws of survival; all the conscious mind has to do is feed the data in and keep clear and shut up.

Shunting still going on. Metal tearing as we hit and parted and hit again, the flight of a bullet somewhere very close and then the bang of its impact against the door pillar. The street full of noise and light: the travail of the two machines as they worked together in collision and recoil, the acid glare of the headlamps as I left them full on, bringing reflections from the windows of the two motionless vehicles.

I shrugged the seat belt tighter and pushed the gear shift into first and hit the floor with my right foot and centered the ZX at the rear wheel of the stationary Mercedes while the power built up and took us through the final few yards to the impact. Fierce deceleration and pain burning against the ribs and shoulder as the weight of my body strained against the seat belt; secondary impact from the rear as the Porsche smashed into me and rebounded with both lamps dark and nothing but a blur in the mirrors. A glimpse of a face at the window of the Mercedes before the whole vehicle began shifting on its tyres, heeling against the shock and swinging wider, letting the ZX through with the nearside door panels shrieking as they grazed past the dark blue tail with the outside mirror snapping at the stem and falling away.

We were through and I dragged the gear shift into second and kept the power on and saw the bright surface of the river dead ahead as the Porsche followed me through and a shot ripped fabric from the roof lining and buried into the frame of the windscreen. There wasn't room to do anything now except try making the turn into the road alongside the river and I started the drift, but a front tyre burst and the steering went wild and the ZX went almost straight on with its wheels ploughing across grass and a footpath and some kind of boating deck before the front end sailed clear and began going down in a curve; final impression: my own headlight beams striking the surface of the river and reflecting against the buildings on the other side in the few seconds before the front of the car hit the water and was buried in a white shockwave.

Peace.

Peace, and the sense of another place.

My body weightless and at ease. So this is what it is like, and it will go on forever.

Night and silence, who is here?

My eyes open, watching the dark; my ears lulled by the soundless water; one hand drifting and touching but feeling nothing that has definition. So death, after all, is nothing spectacular; it is isolation, and the slow running on of the mind.

But there was something there.

Ignore it; there's nothing here.

The weight of my body shifting in a slow dance, touching and coming away. Night, and easeful silence.

Pressure of some kind, a sudden huge rising of the dark under my face, and then no breathing.

Ignore it; the dead don't breathe.

Listen, you've got to -

Be quiet, I'm resting. Go away.

My ears covered and uncovered by the slow rising and falling of the water; my eyes filled with dark, and nothing to -

Water, yes. Do you want to drown, you bloody fool?

Leave me alone and shut up. I'm not interested in panic.

For Christ's sake you've got to -

Leave me alone and -

Got to wake up, wake up, wake up.

The huge rising of the dark again and no breathing.

Pressure in the lungs. Water, did you say?

Don't you know what drowning is? Don't you —

Shuddup.

But the night rose and slammed against my face and blocked off the breathing and I moved suddenly, throwing out one arm and feeling the soft resistance of the water.

Push yourself up. Push up.

Air, yes, and breathing.

A long time choking. This isn't death. This is dying.

Then nightmare: where am I and can I make it and I don't want to die, and so forth. A kind of consciousness returning, flying back into me and finding me embattled against the force of a primitive element. A time of uncertainty, until the black water rose again and I moved my head, tilting it back so that I could breathe, taking the first step towards the light.

For God's sake get out of here.

Where?

Car in the river.

Then shock and the spreading illumination of thought through the shadows of my mind. I began moving, feeling, thinking.