Jason took a right and gunned it from the alley, then hung a left and felt the back end slide. After that, he was hammer down, buildings flicking past as he checked for cops, and hung a second right. He drove faster, and saw light bars flash at an intersection two blocks west. More lights split the night ahead, so Jason cut down an alley, left paint on a parked car. At the next street, he clipped a phone pole, and overcorrected, tires screeching. The street was a three-lane, so he took it down the middle, the needle passing sixty-five, then eighty. Two cruisers drifted onto the street four blocks back, so Jason braked hard, cut right, and killed the headlights. He gave it a block, took another right and thought he was out clear; then a third cruiser locked up the brakes as it flashed under a red light one street over. Jason didn’t need a radio to know the cops were talking.

Three cars close.

More coming.

Lights still off, he accelerated until dotted lines blurred on the street. At ninety-five, the engine maxed out. Another mile, and he thought he was out clean—nothing behind or in front. He gave it two more blocks, then dropped to forty, turned on the lights and tried to look normal as the road dipped, then rose. He crested the hill, then light speared down as a helicopter thundered overhead, spinning to put the light in his eyes. It matched his speed; banked when Jason cut right. For an instant, the van was in front, but Jason was screwed and knew it. Four turns, another hill, and cars came in from every side, six of them and then a dozen. Jason’s run ended where two roads met and streetlights burned, high and white. His foot an inch off the pedal, he watched the cops spill out, weapons up.

He couldn’t go back to prison …

Better to die here and now …

After years of war, the thought was an old friend, and all else, white noise: yesterday, tomorrow, the whole of it, white noise. But then he saw his father. Cops were holding him back, but he was fighting, too. “Don’t do it! Jason! Don’t!”

Jason looked down at the gun in his hand.

MAC-10.

Fully loaded.

“You don’t have to die, son! No one has to die!”

Did Jason even care? He’d killed so many men …

“Think about your brother! Think about Gibby!”

Jason didn’t want to, but did, picturing him as he’d hung on the side of an inner tube, far out in the quarry. He’d needed something then, but Jason had been distant and angry and ungiving.

Swim away, little fish …

That’s the face Jason saw, all hurt and need and little boy.

“Well, shit…”

Jason lowered the weapon, and showed his hands.

It seemed his father knew him after all.

16