I turn to look at the Chrysler just as it pulls away from the curb, moving fast and heading out of the subdivision toward Peachtree Industrial.

I stand and run across the roof, ejecting the empty clip from my CZ and loading a new one on the move. I manage to holster the CZ before reaching the edge of the roof and the built-in ladder I used to get up here. The Chrysler exits the subdivision and turns right. I slide down the ladder, the rails burning my palms as I drop to the parking lot. I’m going fast enough that when I hit the ground I stumble and fall, but I turn that into a roll and regain my feet, already running toward my bike. Sirens rise like a chorus of wails from the direction of the cul-de-sac and beyond. Ten seconds after the Chrysler has exited the subdivision, I’m on my bike, helmet on and the engine roaring beneath me. I shoot off into the night, crossing a corner of the Home Depot parking lot toward the exit that should put me on the same road as the Chrysler.

I fly out onto the road, nearly clipping an SUV which swerves to avoid me, the driver laying on the horn. I lean forward, bringing my face near the handlebars, and urge the motorcycle to go faster.

There’s a bottleneck of cars up ahead at the Peachtree Industrial overpass. A tractor-trailer is half underneath the overpass and slowly turning left onto an access road, blocking the entire street. In that clog of cars, I see the gray Chrysler nosing its way to the right, trying to take the access road in the opposite direction. I lean right and hop the curb onto a sidewalk, passing cars as if they’re parked. Just ahead, the Chrysler exits the bottleneck and takes the on ramp for the access road. I’m right behind it, maybe two car lengths between us.

Whoever is driving must notice, because he taps his brake lights. I brake hard, not wanting to slam into the back of the car, and just as I do he speeds up, increasing the distance between us as he heads up the access road. I gun the throttle, the bike lunging forward. Ahead, the Chrysler is accelerating, and at the last second jerks left across two lanes to get onto Peachtree Industrial. I fly around a slow-moving pickup and follow.

The highway is three lanes wide here. Traffic is steady, a few trucks in the slower right-hand lane. The Chrysler just pours on the speed, gray smoke issuing from the exhaust, but the driver handles the car like he’s steering a barge, plowing left and right, cutting off other cars that honk indignantly in its wake. On my bike, I can easily weave in between vehicles, and I’m steadily making progress.