The night air, polluted with light, carried the rumble of evening trains and, with the thinning traffic, less of the city’s sense-dulling fragrance. Munroe left the facility for the far end of the lot, where she’d parked Bradford’s car, and pulled out to the street, watching for patterns in the rearview.

Things being what they were, trackers would have been placed on the Mira long before they’d been put on the Ninja, and things being what they were, she expected another tail.

Bradford had known about the trackers. At the least, he had to have suspected. In retrospect, the signs were all there. He’d left his phone behind that night he’d used her as cover to case the hostess club in Kitashinchi, a gesture that had been sweet in the moment, a way of ensuring that work wouldn’t encroach on what little time they had. And they’d gone on foot, supposedly to avoid the hassles of finding parking—lies behind the mask, now just more details rearranged in the maddening clarity of hindsight.

Headlights filled Munroe’s rearview mirror. A different set of lights than those of the night before, and a much different driving pattern.

She changed lanes and so did the lights.

She meandered and the car followed, much closer than the sparse traffic warranted, much closer than anyone following a tracker had any right to be.

The mental map changed shape again; mind adding, including, connecting through the abstract from hostess club to Bradford to Jiro to the facility.

She caught two shadows in the front seat, possibly a third in the back.

Munroe flipped the blinker and, taking her time, took a corner.

The car kept tight behind through each random turn and double back. The driver made no attempt to hide that he was there or any effort to communicate. He simply was, like a headache that wouldn’t go away, and so Munroe burned time and distance, routing toward high population areas where multiple stop-starts burned fuel faster. The guys behind her with their bigger car would inevitably run out first.

Lights in the mirror flashed brighter, flooding the Mira’s interior. The hood behind drew close enough that with a touch of speed, or a hint of her brakes, its grille would plow into her.

Munroe nudged the accelerator.

The headlights closed the distance and then the Mira jerked, as if it had been hit with a battering ram.

Munroe toed the gas and the little engine took up speed reluctantly.

The lights in the rearview trailed behind and then moved in closer.

The next bump came harder.

Munroe gripped the wheel, scanning options, running the odds.

The driver behind her didn’t let off the gas the way he would have if he wanted her out of the car, checking for damage. And he didn’t try to nudge in beside her to push her off the road, into lampposts, barriers, or buildings.

He wanted her to go faster.

Making the point, the grille slammed hard into the rear and the Mira juddered. Her options were limited. Brake, and the car behind would plow into her and the Mira would accordion and crush directly into an intersection; speed up, race through these narrow streets that had no stoplights or stop signs, and she invited vehicular homicide or its local equivalent, if a wreck didn’t kill her first.

The next slam sent Munroe’s chest hard into the seat belt and her neck snapped back. Ahead the roads were empty. No pedestrians, no bikes. She stomped on the accelerator and raced through the intersection blind, bracing for a crunch of metal and death.

She cleared through, the lights right up behind her.

Strategy arrived by way of a neon arrow and a parking garage ahead, promising room to maneuver just across the next junction.

The grille bumped her again.

Munroe punched the gas and peeled into the intersection. She slammed a foot onto each pedal and pulled the wheel hard. The Mira spun out, little tires crying against the pavement, chassis shuddering under tension it had never been built to handle. The car lurched to a stop, body angled nose to wall, but off the street.

Munroe threw off the seat belt and dumped out the passenger door.

The grille with the headlights and shadows sped by. She stared after the car, legs shaking, data sorting, questions tumbling, adrenaline racing.

The vehicle peeled a corner and the engine noise faded into the distance. The night went quiet and all that remained was her, the Mira, bright vending machines, a group of pedestrians far, far down the street, and the buildings standing in mute witness on either side.

Munroe opened the driver’s door and stood, eyes on the seat, seeing without really seeing. The boys in the garage with their pipes had been a warning, meant to wound and intimidate. Jiro’s men in her room, with their knives, had been revenge. This had been a setup for an accident, for criminal charges, to remove her from the facility in the same way Bradford had been removed.

Whatever she’d just escaped tonight would inevitably come back in another guise. This was just the warm-up.