‘No clue.’ I’m not a mechanic. Even if I was, I don’t know how much gas or oil he started with.

Then I see the Mazda up ahead. It’s still going fast, but we’re gaining. The Crown Vic has a more powerful engine, and it’s not leaking.

‘I see it,’ Thistle says. She pulls out the radio and presses the loudspeaker button. ‘This is the FBI. Pull over.’

Her distorted voice bounces back off the other vehicles. The Mazda doesn’t slow down.

‘Can you side-swipe him?’ I ask. ‘Knock him off the road?’

Thistle is about to reply when a police car coming the opposite way swerves across the dividing line into the Mazda’s path, lights flashing. The backup came early.

The Mazda goes into a skid as the driver tries to avoid a collision. The front wheels tumble off the side of the road and spin in the dirt. The engine stalls.

Thistle slams on the brakes and leaps out of the Crown Vic. She draws her Glock and advances on the car, head low, perfectly even footsteps keeping her aim steady. ‘Show me your hands!’ she shouts. ‘Levante las manos.’

The other cop climbs out of his car. He’s old, but in good shape, with clear blue eyes buried in his sun-weathered face. His pistol is already up.

The driver of the Mazda gets out. I can see him more clearly now—full lips, angled brows under a long fringe. Definitely the guy from the dump. He’s wearing jeans and a loose T-shirt. He’s terrified.

I’ve done some bad things in my life. Consequently I don’t experience fear the way normal people do. It’s the same calculation I did with McLean, but the stakes are higher—if this guy had murdered sixteen people, would he look so scared?

I get out of the car.

‘Manos arriba,’ Thistle says, getting closer to the guy. ‘Hands up.’

The other cop stays behind the open door of his car. A car door won’t stop a bullet, but it will slow one down.

The Latino guy doesn’t put his hands up. He looks from Thistle’s gun to the other cop’s and back. He swallows.

‘Don’t shoot,’ I say. ‘He’s unarmed.’ No side holsters, no room in his pockets. And given that he just got out of the driver’s seat of a car, he doesn’t have a gun tucked into the back of his pants.

Thistle ignores me. ‘Hands in the air!’ she says. ‘I won’t ask again.’

The guy still doesn’t move, his brow beaded with sweat.

‘He wants you to shoot him!’ I say. ‘Hold your fire.’

The guy hears me. Before the police have time to process what I’ve said, he suddenly reaches behind his back, as though he does have a gun.

Thistle doesn’t shoot.

The other cop does.

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 26