The opposing vehicles closed the gap in a flash. Lara downshifted and lifted her front wheel off the pavement just in time for it to hit the oncoming car. She threw her weight forward, and the driving rear wheel climbed the bumper and grille. She launched the bike off the windshield, straightened the Kawasaki in midair by throwing her weight, and landed with a knee-popping bounce of tires.
The Volvo tried to turn but struck the curb and slid into the building instead. Before the occupants could fight their way past the air bags and out the doors, they were looking at a dozen pistols and shotguns. Lara marked the approach of sirens from both directions.
The Volvo, one axle broken, leaked oil onto the sidewalk in front of the Ministry of Justice. Uniformed Peruvians ordered the four men to lie down. Other officers approached her, guns drawn.
Smoothly, Lara retrieved the red plastic case from the back of the bike and turned to meet the arriving officers.
“Señores,” she said in Spanish as they lowered their guns and their faces broke into disbelieving grins, “I believe someone has ordered a pizza.”
