After Ivy Casik let me out, I called Pike, filled him in, and asked about the Mustang.

What's our boy doing?

Still hasn't moved.

Any sign of the truck?

Nope.

I'm on the way.

I had only gone three blocks when the black Toyota pulled out of a side street in front of me. I wasn't sure it was the same truck, but the Toyota bucked high on its springs and powered away. He had probably been searching the area while the Mustang waited below, and was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

Cops with a busted surveillance would have stopped to badge me, but the Toyota ran. I thought he would run for the flats and the freeways and his buddy in the Mustang, but he skidded onto a cross street instead, climbing higher in the hills. He probably felt he had a better chance of losing me the higher we went, but I pushed after hard, closing the gap.

The curves grew tighter the higher we climbed, looping and crossing like snakes. I wanted to call Pike, but the driving was fast, and my hands were filled with the shifter and wheel. I didn't think he knew where he was going or where the streets went; he just drove it, trying to leave me behind. We busted through stop signs, circled the same streets, turned downhill hard and then it was over. He had turned into a cul-de-sac. He was trapped.

The driver's window was down, and the driver was watching me. His eyes were large and bright from the chase, but waiting to see what I would do. He was big, with beefy forearms and heavy shoulders, but a wispy mustache and zits on his chin made him look even younger than the Foo Fighter. He couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen. He was a kid.

I had once seen three grown men shot to death by an eleven-year-old with an AK-47. I took out my pistol, but did not raise it. He was no more than ten yards away.

Get out of the truck. Keep your hands where I can see them.

His door opened. He raised his hands, then slid out. He looked even younger once he was out, like a baby-faced high-school lineman. I thought he might run because kids always run, but he didn't.

I said, Close it.

He pushed the door closed.

I got out of my car, holding the gun down along my leg because I still didn't know what he might try or what I might have to do when he tried it.

On your knees. Fingers laced on your head.

He did what I told him. Here we were in a small cul-de-sac in a residential neighborhood where someone might step out for the mail or come home from school. I holstered the gun, snapped the safety strap, then stepped away from my car.

What in hell are you doing?