Spencer drove faster than average. And it was obviously his normal thing to do so, slipping in and out of gaps, changing lanes. It was as if he couldn’t help himself but make progress, like he was in a car for a different reason than all the other knuckleheads clogging up the highway. And yet it didn’t feel rushed or flashy. No one was honking at being cut up. Nor did it feel like McGrath was getting some kind of a show. Spencer just seemed to drive fast—but not get noticed. He didn’t know it yet, but his passenger had a list of very specific requirements and moving fast without getting noticed was right at the top.

McGrath glanced in the side-view mirror and saw Johnny Boy’s SUV several cars back. He smirked to himself, knowing the Chicago man would be working hard to keep up.

Johnny Boy was having more trouble than McGrath knew. He was taking a call. And he wasn’t on speakerphone because he didn’t like his calls piping through loud and clear for any recording devices, although he accepted he was possibly being a little overcautious on that score. Chicago PD might be able to afford that kind of shit, but Detroit PD spent their time racing from one 911 to the next. That’s why basing an outfit in Detroit but milking the suburbs made so much sense.

Right now, though, as he tried to converse and change lanes at eighty, not being on speaker wasn’t hanging together all that well. And to say the caller was severely bent out of shape would be an understatement. Johnny Boy was having to hold the phone some distance from his ear.

“I know, we’re on this,” he said when the other guy paused for breath. “No, we are. I just didn’t think they’d wait and get your guy too. Sonsabitches. Your guy got any previous? Will he talk? . . . OK, then just keep him tight. I’ll get to him. I’ll make him happy.”

Johnny Boy finished the call and then took his life in his hands by sending a text.

Up ahead, the phone in McGrath’s jacket vibrated. He took it out and read Johnny Boy’s message: “Hunch proved. Messy & expensive. Job vacancy.”

McGrath sighed and put away his phone, disappointed for a moment, then back in the moment. He glanced in the side-view mirror. About five cars back, there was a DPD car with no light bar on its roof.

“Show me,” he said suddenly.

“Huh?”

“Get me to the MGM Grand in fifteen minutes, and I will give you four thousand bucks. Take it as a down payment on this faggy European car.”

“What’re you . . . Why?”

“I have a boring life? I’m an American. Straight roads and Nascar? Enfuckinglighten me.”

He put a wad of bills down by the gearshift.