I WAS CUTTING left and right on side streets, making my way east, looking up into my rearview mirror from time to time. We’d driven for more than five minutes in silence.

“What does this Leon guy want from you?” I asked.

“You don’t want to get involved, remember?” she said.

“Have it your way, honey. All I thought was that maybe I could give you some advice.”

“The only thing anybody could give me is manpower or money. Either that or Leon Douglas is gonna kill me.”

I looked over into the side mirror and saw the flash of a powder blue Chrysler with horns on its grate as it swerved, aiming to cut me off.

“Shit!” I hit the brakes, narrowly avoiding the collision. He banged into a parked car at a wide angle, blocking the street. I hit the gas and drove up onto the sidewalk. The lawns on that block were small hills leading up to the little homes. I put deep ruts across three of these lawns, fishtailing as I went. As soon as we cleared Leon, I cut a hard left back down to the street. Once on the asphalt, I gunned the engine and we took off. I would have felt good about the maneuver except by then Leon had straightened out also. He was barreling down on us.

I careened left, scraping an oncoming Ford. Leon did the same thing. Then I heard something that sounded like a chicken bone breaking.

“They’re shooting at us!” Elana cried.

I made three more wild turns. Shots popped off at irregular intervals. There were no cops anywhere.

“Take the gun outta my pocket!” I yelled.

Elana wasn’t slow. She didn’t resist or think or pretend that it was too much for her. She just jammed her hand into my pocket and rolled down her window.