 World will fall. Written by Rob Aspinall. Narrated by Ella Lynch. CHAPTER I. DEEP WATERS Philippe wrapped one blood-stained finger after another around the chunky leather steering-wheel of the Range Rover. I squeezed the padded door-handle with one hand, the velour cushion of the passenger seat with the other. At both ends of the bridge, a stack of Berlin police car's flashed emergency blue. Yet, except for the heavy metal beat of a chopper overhead and the faint echo of a police megaphone, all was quiet. The traffic had been diverted away from the area by the Berlin PD, who'd tricked us onto a stretch of road from which there was no escape. I breathed in the new car smell of the Range Rover. Philippe's right hand moved over to the gear stick. I heard the deep honk of a large white tour-boat approaching the bridge from our left. Philippe raised an eyebrow at me. So, what do you think? I looked at the boat. Long, wide, rows of blue plastic seats on the top deck, but empty of passengers. What the hell? I said. I've turned stupider. Philippe put the Range Rover in reverse. He backed it up fast, gears whining. He slammed on the brakes. The boat glided under the bridge, not far ahead of us. Brace yourself, Philippe said, slipping the gear stick into first. I clenched everything there was to clench. Teeth, bladder, bum-hole, you name it. The bridge squatted wide and low over the water, with a pavement either side. A large, rusty blue water pipe sat elevated above the road to the left. One of the many old pipes that seemed to run through the city like water-park tube slides. A five-foot-high steel lattice barrier ran along the edge of the bridge. I hoped it had some give. I was just watching the boat disappear underneath, weighing up the odds of survival when Philippe stamped hard on the accelerator. The stolen black Range Rover revved and squealed out of the blocks. Philippe jammed the stick into second and spun the wheel to the right at the last nanosecond. We veered across the road and hit the curb with a whomp. The Range Rover bumped up off the pavement, the front grill smashing through the barrier with a bang and flying off the bridge. The impact knocked us forward in our seats, belts locking tight. The bonnet dipped as the boat emerged from the other side. We came down nose over wheels, wrong angle, wrong timing. The sight of the tour boat replaced by a windscreen full of the throffing white water kicked out by its propellers. Ah, fuck nuts. We ve only gone amiss. Sample complete. Ready to continue?