Hospital policy was clear on how to transport a person of interest under police custody. Therefore, Jane Doe 112963 went out via a ground ambulatory vehicle, insisted by hospital administration, though not without police escorts. An SUV in front, the other running aft, were packed with law enforcement.

They had strapped Porsche onto the wheeled gurney and rolled her into the hold of the ambulance. Neither was she alone in the box. An armored cop remained to guard the suspect at all times.

"We got clearance from FRTA for off-mag driving all the way to Oz. Can you handle manual for twenty minutes?" Frito-Lay said to the driver of the ambulance.

"Don't you worry, I do this day in, day out."

"We're on channel 8."

"Got it," the EMT said, a dependable four-year veteran of the urban jungle. The driver hopped into the front cab with his companion. Between them was an access corridor into the hold.

The convoy began to roll as the lead escort pulled out taking point. The ambulance pulled out next, followed by the rear ute, all three running in tight formation to form a moving perimeter. A few feet in front, two air-Segways powered up a few feet off the ground and flanked the convoy with blaring sirens and flashing lights. Aero-cycles were simple designs -- cut an aerocar along its length, you'd get half the weight, and twice the speed. With an open cockpit, it could either be manned or run autonomously.

Curious about the patient in the back, the senior EMT of Ambulatory Vehicle 17 wouldn't stop talking. He offered his idea who Jane Doe was to his new companion.

"This happens all the time, you know," he said, almost shouting above the sirens. "You know something's big when you see all these guys."

"I see that," the dark-skinned female in the shotgun seat said.

"You've been an EMT for how long?" The driver eyed his backup with curiosity. She had on a paramedic jumpsuit a couple of sizes too small for her frame. He didn't seem to mind, she gathered. Complaining it was hot, she had unclipped the neck guard and zippered down halfway. Under the white t-shirt, she was flat-chested with thick pectorals, her torso toned and sinewy.

"Four years."

"What's your name again?"

"Alex."

"So where the hell is Jerry? How come you're here?" the veteran asked, glancing over several times without intending to.

"Last minute fill-in. Jerry got sick and went home. That's what the Schedule Coordinator said, I dunno."

"Go check on our passenger, make sure she's strapped down and happy."

"Sure thing."

Alex got up from her seat and moved aft into the hold where the guard and Jane Doe were. Porsche held in the wheeled stretcher was sedated, her head lay on one side, eyes shut. Alex straddled up to the gurney, and pretended to peruse some readouts.

She could feel the cop looking at her. So she smiled at him.

"How long before she gets up?" he asked, seeming to notice nothing.

"Shortly." Alex reached out to check her pulse when the cop snatched her wrist and turned it over. He saw the faded half-inch scar.

"You're kidding, right? It's a felony offense to tamper or remove an Atlas implant."

"And we were having such a lovely conversation," Alex said, her eyes narrowed dangerously before reversing the hold. She now had a lock on his forearm. She could see the surprise registered on his face as she jerked him out of his seat, her elbow crushing his nose. It was easy to choke out the stunned man after that. She removed his cuffs, looped them around a metal rail support, and slapped them on his wrists behind his back. She relieved him of his sidearm, safetied the automatic, then taped his eyes shut, leaving his mouth free to breathe as blood and mucous clogged the man's broken nose. Alex didn't want a cop's death on the long list of charges against her.

The quick take-down which rocked the vehicle hadn't gone unnoticed in the front. The driver shouted amid the blaring of the sirens, "Hey, what's going on back there?"

Alex returned to her seat, her demeanor calm and business-like.

The driver studied his companion while trying to keep his eyes on the road. His right fingers inched toward the holo-switch on his left wrist in an effort to access the com channel.

It didn't fool Alex. "Hands on the steering -- nine and three where I can see 'em. Keep away from your coms." The cop's sidearm was in her hand.

He hesitated, unsure what to do, fearful eyes pin-balling between the road and the barrel leveled at him.

"Don't think. Just drive," warned Alex. "Else I'll splatter you all over the window."

"Okay -- okay, just take it easy."

"Stay at the speed you're on. No sudden breaks or jinks, Clifford, is it?" His name tag was on his uniform, she saw. "I know all the tricks so don't try to be a hero, Clifford. Got a wife and kids?"

"Uh-huh."

"Be smart then. You drive 'til I tell you different."

They drove in silence for a while, keeping to the convoy speed, listening to the radio chatter. No one outside their cabin had a clue something was amiss.

The turnpike was a straight five-lane highway. As they headed out toward Dulles, the dense conurbation landscape astride the highway became more agitated, stretches of sprawl giving way to jutting towers. They were nearing the Reston-Oz tunnel.

Now or never, Alex.

"Okay, Clifford, you listen carefully," she instructed. "Your right hand – put the vehicle in auto-cruise."

Done.

"Left hand -- unlock the door . . . Easy does it."

"You don't mean --"

"Shut up and do it."

Clifford depressed the switch to Unlock. Clack-clack. The driver-side door bolts ratcheted back.

"Now, open the door."

The left door creaked open and buffeted against head-on drafts as siren noise and kerosene-smelling air rushed into the cabin. Door ajar, cabin lights came on.

Clifford glanced nervously in front, left and at the gun, his face agonizing over the choices -- a dive onto concrete, crushed by traffic . . . or a bullet to the brain. He hesitated, pleading for a third choice.

"Wait --"

Alex didn't. She shifted her weight, putting her back against the door on her side, and delivered a swift stomp that sent Clifford out into the night. She heard him roll, picturing him tumbling like socks in a dryer. Her ears perked for the eventuality-- but there was no thump from the undercarriage. Clifford had cleared the back wheels. Yet she could hear the rear Ute screeching and swerving, avoiding the bouncing Clifford. It began honking and flashing its lights. The radio exploded with chatter and shouts.

Sliding over, Alex grabbed the wheel without jerking it too much and locked the doors. The cab interior darkened.

The sirens of the rear vehicle vied with the ambulance, its V12 block in overdrive, speeding up to intercept. Front and aft, the two escorts coordinated their intercepts, as she'd expected. Her side mirror showed the rear juggernaut making a move running up on her left while the front Ute applied breaks to box her in.

Alex focused on what she was seeing through the side rear mirror.

Bastards are going for the tires.

The black beast was sneaking in on her left, its windows lowered, gun barrels sticking out aiming low, trying to get off a shot.

She swung the wheel hard left. The sturdy truck, its gross vehicle weight topping 15,000 pounds, ground the Ute against the concrete divider. As soon as its front tires caught the embankment, the pursuit vehicle flipped on its side, throwing off sparks. Its momentum continued until friction stopped its slide.

Alex stepped on the accelerator. The ambulance lurched forward ramming into the front vehicle, clipping the left corner of the rear bumper, spinning it sideways. She hammered the nose of the truck into its flank, and drove forward mercilessly, crushing its front door and wheel wells. Misaligned tires of the ute squealed and smoked, its drive axle fractured, its undercarriage in pieces. In a panic, the men in the SUV opened-fire like a broadside from a ship of the line, cratering her windshield and engine grills. To no avail.

The tires of the lead SUV soon burst, rubber disintegrating on the asphalt, rims sparking, the crushed frame began to shift away from the impact center and fell by the wayside, allowing the ambulance to plow forward unimpeded. Ground traffic in front of her split, individual cars pulling over in an orderly manner; their autonav computers in swarm logic made a hole through which the ambulance powered through alone.

But she was far from getting away Scot free.

The pair of aero-cycles running point became aware of what was happening behind them. They climbed to two thousand feet, then banked right to swing around.

Alex got off the turnpike heading for the tunnel, lead-footing the ambulance with sirens blaring. She could spot faint lights in the sky making a U-turn. Fifteen hundred feet, the lead aerobike came around and lined up its EM suppressor guns on the jinking vehicle. A static charge from such weapons, she knew, would disable all electronics and drive systems aboard the truck.

The tunnel was straight ahead, no more than two thousand yards -- but backed up with traffic. She pointed the nose of the vehicle into the opposite lane and gunned the engine, her hands cracking from the grip of the steering. She glanced at the digital speedometer ratcheting up to 93 . . . Then 98 . . . 105.

Come one, come on. Incoming traffic blurred by as the collision warning klaxoned in the dashboard. She banged on the wheel, shouting obscenities back at it while her eyes watched the sky. The lights above were diving and angling in for a deflection shot.

No way they'd let her slip away. Besides, a tracking beacon was somewhere on this truck. All emergency vehicles carried one.

From the corner of her eyes, Alex saw flashes from on high -- weapons discharge. Bluish grapefruit-sized plasma balls lobbed toward her. One bright ball hit the top of the ambulance. Static charges snapped and crackled from the wheel, giving her mini-shocks at the same time everything went dead, electronic, hydraulic, dynamo. The engine may have lost drive but the ambulance still carried momentum, bleeding off speed as it barreled into the tunnel.

With no power, Alex heaved against the locked wheel of the ambulance and aimed it at the far left wall embankment to avoid colliding with oncoming traffic. It crashed into the railing and slid against the tiles, taking out chunks of the sidewall. At this instant, something hit Alex like a two-by-four, temporarily knocking her out.

Coming to, she realized the airbag had deployed. She tasted metal in her mouth, realizing the inflaters had given her a bloody lip. She peered through the cracked windshield. Up ahead was the source of the traffic jam, a disabled vehicle on fire, taking up one lane. This was her plan. She needed to get moving.

Alex tore off the crash-bubble and tried to stand. The knock on her head made her wobble on her feet as she stumbled into the rear hold.

Everything was in shambles, tools and med-equipment flung about. Porsche, secured to the gurney was still out. The cop was moaning, his arms still cuffed to the frame, probably broken; it jutted at a grotesque angle.

Alex unstrapped Porsche's arm and leg bonds, losing thirty seconds in the process. She heaved and dead-lifted the body onto her shoulder; kicked open the back doors and jumped down. People were coming out of their cars, some angry, many were filming the accident.

A beat-up Hemi pickup pulled aside the back, screeching its tires. It idled long enough for Alex to throw Porsche in the back. Once she leaped in, the pickup accelerated for the tunnel exit. In the back, Alex pulled a tarp over her and the sedated woman. They were coming out into open sky.

She had no time to check on Porsche before. Under the tarp, Alex turned her neck and fumbled to find her carotid artery. Breathing normal. Strong pulse. Sleeping like a beauty.

Now, we're even.