By Stealth by Colin Forbes

unexpected manoeuvre had taken the driver of the killer vehicle by surprise.
    He had overshot the mark, was backing, turning to follow them down the lane. Tweed had caught sight of a signpost at the entrance. Too little time to read what it pointed to. Lymington, he hoped. Or it could be a dead end. In which case...'
    `Where did that signpost point to?' Paula asked, her voice still calm.
    `No idea. We'll find out in due course.'
    Behind them the juggernaut was building up speed. It would be on top of them again in less than a minute, Paula calculated. Where was this nightmare going to end? She glanced at Tweed. His expression was grim but his body showed no signs of tension. Frequently his eyes whipped up for a millisecond, checking the rear-view mirror.
    `Let's hope we don't meet a farm tractor,' she said. `That's what I like. An optimist,' he joked.
    The lane was becoming more tunnel-like, the trees on both sides closer together. Oh, Lord! Paula thought. They had turned round a bend and left the straight stretch behind. The lane became a series of non-stop curves and blind bends, which forced Tweed to reduce speed. She glanced again in the wing mirror. The orange monster was catching up fast, sweeping round the bends with reckless abandon. He had weight on his side and knew it.
    `If only we could reach a village,' Paula commented.
    `Doesn't look like the sort of lane which has them. We haven't passed a single cottage so far...'
    Another glance in the rear-view mirror revealed the concrete mixer close to their tail, its insidious sphere revolving like a clock counting down their fate. Tweed was driving as fast as he dared, bearing in mind the tortuous country lane. The headlights of the pursuing vehicle glared in his mirror. Something had to give — and damned soon.
    He swung round another bend with the thunder of the cement mixer's engine and mechanism in his ears. Paula extracted the Browning from inside her shoulder-bag, reached for her safety belt to release it.
    `Put that away!' Tweed snapped.
    `I might get him with a shot through the rear window...'
    `I said put it away. Travelling at this speed you will never hit him. More likely to shoot me.'
    She rammed the weapon back into the bag, frustrated but seeing the sense of Tweed's objection. The Escort was now rocking from side to side as — by the grace of God — he negotiated another diabolical bend. Suddenly he leaned forward.
    He had his headlights undimmed and the tunnel-like effect continued. Tweed was staring at a point ahead where two ancient thick-trunked oaks leaned from each side of the lane, forming an arch as they reached out towards each other as though in a passionate embrace. The mixer was within inches of the Escort, roaring like a thunderbolt.
    Tweed pressed the accelerator down, coaxed a fraction more speed out of his engine. The gap between the two vehicles again widened for seconds. Tweed drove under the oaks, saw another straight stretch, looked in the rearview mirror.
    The juggernaut was rushing towards them at top speed. He guessed the driver was intent on finishing the job. Which is why he didn't see the arch. His machine began to pass under it but was too large to slip through as the smaller Escort had done. Tweed was still watching when he saw what happened.
    `Look in your wing mirror,' he said quickly.
    Paula saw the huge vehicle stopped with terrifying suddenness. The arch was too small. The mixer was trapped by the narrow vault. There was a frightful screech of tyres. A horrendous grinding of metal against solid oak. The drum continued to revolve but was twisted through a hundred and eighty degrees. An avalanche of cement descended on the cab. One oak trunk gave way, crashing down on the cab roof, telescoping it. The drum was now turning slowly as though revolved by some unseen hand. Then it stopped. The sound of the machine's engine died. Tweed switched off his own engine and a silence like doom closed over the countryside.
    `Give me the