Eventually it comes down to the question, do you stay on some shitty little side street that might dead-end around the next corner, or hit the freeway? Never hit the freeway. Oh, sure you can go faster, for a bit. People get out of your way once they see the lights of the cop cars chasing you, but gridlock is gridlock and no amount of panicking behind the wheel is going to make that change. And then what? You can’t hide on the freeway. Too many eyes on you.

Everybody is watching your poor decision-making skills play out on television, smartphones, computers. They’re taking bets on when you’re going to crash, filling out their bingo cards with all the stupid shit you do.

The only reason the cops don’t gun your ass down or ram your car is there are civilians in the way. Easier to stay on you and wait them out. The only way to win a car chase is to not get into one.

And Letitia knows it. So why is she doing it?

“Shit, shit, shit.”

“Hey, officially nothing’s happened yet,” I say. “They’re still back there, we’re still up here. Keep it cool and we’ll be fine. You’ve got to know some hidey-holes we can get to where they can’t find us.” I’ve never met a mage who doesn’t have at least one.

“I don’t,” she says.

Until now, apparently.

“Okay then,” I say.

“What about you?”

“Not near here, and not ones you’d want to go to.”

“That’s what I thought.”

She turns right on Union and I can feel her cast a spell. She guns the engine, weaving in and out of traffic with more agility than this truck has any right to have.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m a cop,” she says.

“And that’s important how?”

“I can get more cops.”

Of course. There’s an LAPD station up here somewhere. Which one? Rampart? Except.

“Are there more mages at Rampart?”

“Not as far as I know. I’m stationed at Central, and I’m the only one there. Werther won’t try anything out in the open.”

“Right. Because a basketball court at a Catholic school across the street from the ACLU and the police union is the definition of discretion.”

“You don’t think—”

“Yes, I do.”

We’re coming up on 6th Street and Letitia slows down. “Something’s wrong,” she says.

I can see that. Sometime in the last few seconds all of the cars and people have found better places to be. The street has become eerily silent.

“This is the same shit he did when he hit me. He’s keeping all the normals clear. How much you want to bet that when we get to the station the parking lot’ll be empty?”