Tires squeal and a low spray of sparks illuminate the low-tier highway... essentially the "slow lane," this underpass-highway has a speed limit of 140 km/hr... they reverse-merge into the knot of alarm-toning, brake-riding traffic RIGHT BEHIND a pair of police interceptor "CHEETAHS"-- single-unit, low-profile vehicles that resemble stretched-out cockroaches with a single fat tire at each end, the driver lying flat on his stomach and looking straight up at a blur of highway from only a meter above the blurring asphalt.<br/><br/>Hilarious that they haven't drawn a pursuit themselves... the blue, white, and amber lights of the police vehicles flash a piercing, blinding flicker of strobes designed to induce minor seizures.  They make perpetrators more cooperative, some say, and only cause a handful of deaths each year.  Even their sirens are designed for control and intimidation, and for the past decade have reached a decibel level above the threshold of pain for human ears.<br/><br/>Liz falls in behind them in the black sedan, knowing that they're headed to the same place... but, it seems, they failed to download the most recent CDMV construction plans this week.  Liz crosses the six lanes of traffic at 260 KPH, nudging the sedan in a smoke-trailing, rubber-pealing skid  between two water-filled highway barricades, spilling the acetone/water blend onto the highway behind them in a deluge as they chirp tires in a downshift up the closed exit ramp.<br/><br/>Half the highway on this ramp is closed, the other half unpaved, and-- with no workers in sight-- Liz pivots the car from the exit ramp with a shower of plastic chips-- the preferred filler material-- thrown from the tires before they emerge onto the sunlit street next four blocks south of Neil's hotel.  "Almost there, ladies and gentlemen."