I hit the access road and then turn into the two-lane. Up ahead, the Chrysler’s brake lights flash red as he navigates a long, looping turn to the left. I hug the inside curves of each turn, and then the road widens to four lanes and straightens, both sides walled in by trees pressing up to the road like dark sentries. The Chrysler is thirty yards ahead. With my headlight off, I hope the driver can’t see me. I spend all of five seconds closing the gap between us, then realize this straight section of road is the best chance I’ll have—up ahead, a series of streetlights, curved like the necks of swans, illuminates the road. Once we reach those, he’ll definitely see me. I drop my hand off the throttle, causing the bike to slow, and I draw the CZ and lay my arm across the throttle to steady it and put three rounds into the rear windshield of the Chrysler. The glass starbursts and the car swerves left, then right. A rear tire blows, and the driver overcorrects to the left, the blown tire smoking, and the Chrysler drives off the road and slams into a kudzu-wrapped oak with an awful shearing crash of metal and glass.

I come up behind the wrecked car and brake hard to a stop, then jump off the bike, my CZ up and tracking. Steam hisses from the hood of the Chrysler, which is crumpled like a cardboard box, and there’s an acrid scent of burnt rubber and scorched oil. The road is still deserted, although I suspect that won’t last long. Something moves in the driver’s side window. I fire a round into what’s left of the front panel of the car. “Drop the gun out the window,” I shout. There’s a pause, and then a pistol is tossed out the window, landing with an ugly clatter on the street. I step forward and pick it up, flinging it into the nearby woods. “Get out of the car, slowly, both hands out in front of you.”

The driver’s door opens with a screech of metal and two hands appear, fingers splayed to show they’re empty, followed by the driver. The last time I saw him, he wore a hairnet and a Waffle House uniform. Now he’s in jeans and a T-shirt with a Wu-Tang Clan logo, the kind of graphic tee you can buy at any Target, bougie cool at sweatshop prices. He’s also bleeding from a cut on his forehead. He stares at me with dull brown eyes.

“Hi,” I say. “Where are the rest of the Sureños?”

“Chinga te, puta,” he says. His voice is a bit slurred but I figure that’s from the head injury.