I’m heading toward town, then taking Black Valley Road west, Johan had said to Xander, believing his man-ape would soon be following. Did knowing this aid Luke’s decision? He didn’t think so. It removed some of the hard work, certainly, but he would have gone after Johan regardless—albeit blindly.

It came down to this: Ramón would very likely disappear with Lisa and the other women. He might kill them. Kitty’s fate was more certain; Johan had brought his ax for a reason.

Luke hunched over the wheel, willing his car to go faster. Gradually, he got close enough to determine certain details: the width of the Mustang’s tires, its chrome accents, the branding between the taillights. He saw Kitty’s sneaker zip into view through the windshield again, there and gone in a second. The Mustang veered left, crossed the center line, then swung right again. Was Kitty kicking around too much, causing Johan to lose focus? Or was he scanning his cell phone? Had Xander texted to let him know that Luke had slipped the leash?

Maybe, but it changed nothing. Luke was all in.

One hundred feet . . . sixty . . . twenty . . . Luke thumped into the Mustang’s back end, hard enough to explode one of its taillights and crease the Caliber’s hood. The Mustang wobbled, slowing down while Johan got it under control. Luke knocked into it again and his front left headlight went out in a quick shower of glass.

This was a rash, dangerous course of action, but he saw no other way. He’d quickly dismissed the idea of driving into Pale Bone, rousing the auxiliary cops—if they even existed—from the dust, or hunting down a phone to call the main police department in Vegas. By the time they’d asked their questions and dispatched units, Ramón and Johan would have disappeared.

If there was a better way, Luke couldn’t see it. He had to run that goddamn Mustang off the road. Then, with the more urgent problem solved, he could turn every cop in the country on to Ramón, and hope like hell it wasn’t too late.

Luke crunched into Johan’s back end again. Tires screeched. Metal buckled. He didn’t have his .38 Special, but his Caliber packed a bigger punch. He’d assessed the risks—the dangers to Kitty and himself—and concluded they were worth taking. This way, at least, she stood a chance.