I shoot him in the foot. He drops to the ground with a cry, then starts screaming in Spanish. Blood begins to form a black pool beneath his foot.

“Tick tock.” I wave my CZ. “Los Sureños, por favor. Ahora.”

He lifts his head and, gritting his teeth, smiles, then lifts his hand to give me the finger. “You’re gonna die, bitch.”

I shoot his hand and manage to take off his finger. He screams again, higher this time, and clutches his hand to his stomach.

“The next one is in your crotch,” I say, aiming the CZ at said location. “Comprende? Donde estan los Sureños?”

He hesitates, eyes looking desperately for a way out. I fire again and he howls, then starts panting when he realizes I fired between his legs into the dirt. Before he can take comfort from that, I jam the now-warm muzzle of the CZ under his chin. His eyes roll as he tries to look at both the pistol and my face.

“Los Sureños,” I say, not taking my eyes off his. And just like that, I see his willpower snap.

“A house,” he says. “There’s a house. In Lawrenceville.”

“I need more than a house in Lawrenceville.”

“Sixteen thirty-four Racine! Es la dirección!”

“If they aren’t there,” I say, slowly twisting the barrel of the CZ into the soft flesh beneath his chin, “I will come back and chop off each of your toes and make you eat them.”

“They’re there! They’re there! Por favor, no mas, por favor—”

I club him behind the ear with the pistol and he drops like a bag of mulch. From his back pocket I fish out his wallet and, with my phone, take a picture of his Georgia driver’s license. It lists his name as José Rodríguez. I pull out a Visa credit card from the wallet, also in the name of José Rodríguez, and take a picture of the front and back of that as well.

In the distance, I hear approaching sirens. No doubt a concerned motorist called the police about a gun battle on the highway. I put José’s Visa and ID back in his wallet and shove the wallet back in his pocket. It’ll make it easier for the cops to identify him. According to the map on my phone, if I continue through this business park I’ll hit Buford Highway, hopefully avoiding the police. I get back on my bike and ride off through the park, the streetlamps shedding cold light down onto the road. Through the Bluetooth connection in my helmet I call Special Agent Rondeau.

“Rondeau,” she answers.

“Are Agent Scott and his son all right?” I ask.

“Where are you?”

“Are they safe?”

“You need to turn yourself in to the nearest police station, and I mean yesterday.”