I hit the brakes when I see the Sheriff’s patrol unit pulled over to the side of the dark road, but it’s too late.

In the rearview I watch him pull out and hit the lights, and I’m cursing really fucking bad as I drive onto the dirt shoulder and slam the tranny into first and punch the kill button. I put my gun under my seat. I unplug and slide the police band radio under the passenger seat, too. Then I turn on the interior light as a courtesy, roll down my window, dig my CDL and registration from the center console and watch him approach in the sideview mirror.

Tall guy, slender like a boxer, light hair, alert. His summer-weight uniform looks tailored because they don’t design them for guys that skinny.

He’s got a Maglite in his left hand, but his right hand is free, and I see him look at my plate and reg sticker on his way by. He stops away from the door and looks at me.

“Evening, ma’am.”

“Evening, Deputy.”

“In a hurry?”

“No. Just a fast car.”

“This the Z06?”

“Five hundred and five bhp at sixty-three hundred rpm. Just about scalp you in second.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home if you don’t mind.”

“Drinking tonight?”

“I don’t drink.”

He nods and stares at me. “I need your license and registration for the vehicle.”

He steps up and I hand them over. His badge says C. Hood. C. Hood steps back and turns the flashlight on them. The registration will pass a visual from a deputy every time. It won’t fool a document examiner with the right tools. The driver’s license is genuine, and its bearer-Suzanne Elizabeth Jones, SEX: F, DOB 12/26/1976, 5-9, 135, BR N and BR N-has never had a ticket or been arrested. She’s a good girl.