‘Shit.’ Thistle hits the brakes, but not fast enough. She’s missed the turn—because there was no turn. Just a gap in the rotting fence which lines the road, invisible unless you know it’s there. The Mazda is already gone, hidden by trees.

Thistle backs up, talking into her radio. ‘Dispatch, this is Agent Reese Thistle.’

The radio hisses. ‘Go ahead, Agent.’

‘I’m in pursuit of a suspect driving a white Mazda, registration …’ She tosses the radio to me and manoeuvres the Crown Vic into the gap in the fence line. I recite the number and pass the radio back.

‘Requesting backup,’ Thistle says. She floors the accelerator, and the Crown Vic bounces through the undergrowth, crushing shrubbery and startling birds. Police vehicles have overinflated tyres and modified suspension, but even so I’m worried the car will shake itself to bits. Every lurch throws me against my seatbelt or crushes me into my seat. There are two thick ropes of muscle inside the front of the neck, on either side of the windpipe; I’m not sure what they’re called, but I can feel them straining to keep my head attached.

‘Understood, Agent,’ the radio says. ‘Cars inbound to your location. ETA six minutes.’

Not a bad response time, but not good enough. Now that he’s off-road, there are an infinite number of directions Gomez could be headed in. Roadblocks won’t help. If we don’t get eyes on this guy again soon, he’s gone for good. I should have let Thistle call for backup earlier.

Thistle yells over the screaming engine: ‘Anything?’

I’m frantically scanning the trees, but I can’t see any sign of the Mazda. Nor is there any crushed vegetation ahead of us to indicate which way he went. Which means—

‘He doubled back,’ I say. ‘We already missed him. Turn around.’

Thistle does exactly what the other driver must have done. She shifts into reverse and backs into the forest at an angle, far enough that someone else driving past wouldn’t see us. Then she spins the wheel, switches to drive and zooms out of the brush, jolting back towards the highway.

‘Left or right?’ Thistle asks.

I still can’t see the Mazda. But unless the guy is a master of double-bluffing, he won’t have pulled that trick only to keep going the same way he was before.

‘Left,’ I shout. ‘Back towards Houston.’

Thistle sends the car careening back onto the road and puts the pedal to the metal. The engine roars, and the scratched-up Crown Vic hurtles up the highway. She flicks on the siren. I notice a trail of splotches on the tarmac, like old chewing gum stains on the sidewalk.

‘He’s leaking,’ I say, shouting over the siren. ‘Gas, or maybe oil. His car isn’t designed for off-road.’

Thistle swerves around a rusty pick-up. ‘How long can he keep going?’