The street ended. Two quick rights. He was heading toward the parkway. He saw no car in his rearview mirror. A minivan was stopped at a stop sign at the entrance to the parkway. Addis leaned on the horn and cut to the left of the minivan. He hit the brakes. The Honda skipped up on the curb and passed the minivan.

“You’re clear!” Lancette yelled.

He pressed the accelerator, and the car jumped on to the parkway, ahead of the minivan. Addis dodged a station wagon entering from another ramp. He straddled the two lanes. Behind them, several horns sounded.

“New idea,” he said.

“What?”

“A police station. Let’s find one. What are they going to do? Blast into a police house? We can call whoever we want from there.”

“Okay,” she said. She was holding on to the armrest.

“What’s the nearest one?”

“I don’t know,” she said. But she once had memorized the location of the precinct houses. The closest, she realized, were V Street and Idaho Avenue. V Street was nearer but that meant going through congested Dupont Circle. Their pursuer might have the chance to catch up. Idaho Avenue offered them a clearer run.

“Idaho Avenue,” she said. “Get off at the next exit.”

The parkway curved sharply. Addis tried to maintain speed. He was gaining on a convertible in the left lane. He flashed his high beams. He looked in the mirror. The Trailblazer had caught up to them. The driver’s arm was extended out the window. He held a gun. Addis grabbed Lancette by the shoulder and pulled her down.

“Stay there,” he said.

With his right hand, he reached into his coat pocket and grabbed his cell phone. He held it out to her.

“Call nine-one-one.”

“And ask for what?”

“I don’t know. Just call.”

He sped up. He felt the centrifugal force drawing the Honda into the oncoming lanes. More speed, he thought and pulled the steering wheel further to the right. He pumped the horn.

“Come on!” he shouted at the convertible. “Come on!”

Lancette opened the phone. She pressed the power switch. Nothing. “It won’t go on,” she said.

Fuck, it hasn’t been charged.

Addis took the phone from her and tossed it on to the backseat. She reached over and dug her fingers into his thigh. She looked behind them.

“Getting closer,” she said, keeping her voice steady.

“Move over!” he yelled at the car in front of them.

The convertible shifted to the right lane, and Addis sped by it. The convertible’s driver, a woman with a blond mane, gave him the finger.

The gun, he thought, the one Dunne had given him.

“There’s a gun in the glove compartment,” he told Lancette.

“I’ve never used one before. Have you?”

“Not in any of the training they gave you?”

“No,” she said. “But I can tell you how to kill someone’s career with bureaucratic reports.”