Will was a habitually careful driver. When you lived the kind of life the Merry Men did, you didn't want to give the cops any excuse to look twice at you. He drove like a maniac now. Weaving through traffic, speeding through lights, pushing past the speed limit as far as he dared. It was a sickening gamble. Every second counted, and every one he spared might be vital to Clio – but if he leaned too heavy on the speed, attracted the wrong attention, they'd wind up with a cop car on their arse and every one of those precious seconds and minutes would be for nowt. He drove expecting to hear the whoop of police sirens at any moment, desperate for the howl of fire sirens instead.
As he drove, he sent up a desperate prayer to any god who would listen. Don't do this to her. Not this, too. Don't rip her from history again. Let her live, god, let her live, don't do this, please—