"Holy Mary, Mother of God." Cruz's voice was settling now, not the panicked mumbling of before. Her eyes flicked to the rearview, narrowed. "Hold on."

Jason reached for the seatbelt, clicked it into place as she yanked the wheel to the right, a hard, sliding turn on streets slick with rain and grease. The back fishtailed, skidding around, and then she hit the gas again, the vector overwhelming the spin as they charged east. The street was ghetto-residential, sagging houses drooping toward cracked earth, rusting fences, weeds shining damp in gardens of broken glass. Battered cars lined both sides of the street, shit, all facing toward them, which meant they were going the wrong direction down a one-way street. The rain had driven people off the street to their porches, and Jason heard angry yells. Someone threw a bottle wrapped in brown paper, the glass smashing in their wake.

Behind them, headlights spun around the same curve, slid too far, side-slammed into a parked car. Jason watched, willing the car to flip. It didn't. Another set of headlights came in behind.

"There's a second car," he said.

Cruz nodded, her knuckles white on the wheel.

He'd have given a finger for a weapon. He felt helpless, Cruz driving, him riding shotgun without a shotgun. More flashes exploded behind them, but didn't seem to hit anything.

A hundred yards ahead, headlights glowed. An oncoming car. The street was too narrow for them to pass. It would trap them.

"Elena-"

"I see it." She stayed on course, running straight, the accelerator to the floor. There was a cross-street between them and the oncoming car. A northbound street, Racine he thought. It was a toss-up whether they could get there first. A horn shrieked from the oncoming car. Behind them, the Charger was gaining fast. Jason gripped the armrest. Angry yells poured in the Honda's broken windows. A couple years ago a white delivery driver had accidentally hit a black kid in this neighborhood. The crowd had pulled him from his car and beaten him to death before the police arrived. Jason watched the headlights grow larger, the distance disappearing.

Then they reached the corner and Cruz yanked the wheel left in a full-speed turn. Centripetal force threw him against the seatbelt. Tires screamed on asphalt. Jason had a glimpse of the terrified eyes of the driver of the other car, a Buick, and then they cleared it by inches.

He swiveled to look behind in time to see the Charger slam into the Buick. The squealing horn died, replaced by the nails-on-chalkboard sound of metal tearing. Glass cracked and popped, and headlight beams swam wildly up the sides of rotting houses. Then the Charger flipped to its side and surfed a trail of sparks out of sight.

Jason let himself breathe again.

They were heading north, the Honda's four cylinders as close to roaring as they were likely to get, a clank coming from the engine that he didn't like. Fifty blocks up, Racine was a lovely residential street of hundred-year trees and million-dollar graystones. But on the south side it twisted between abandoned factories and weed-filled lots strewn with black garbage bags. The rain covered everything with a greasy film.

"We made it," he said.

Cruz nodded, blew air through her lips. Didn't even slow for a red light. Shipping containers packed dark parking lots under broken warehouse windows. They hit a bump that knocked loose glass from the broken rear, the green pieces glowing eerily under dingy streetlights. Jason tried to picture where they were on his mental map. They'd made distance on the empty streets, probably putting them at the south end of Bridgeport. There weren't any headlights behind them. With luck, the second car had gotten tangled up in the accident. At very least, it would have to reverse and circle around.

Cruz eased up on the gas, letting the Honda drop to fifty. She took one hand off the wheel, flexed it, the knuckles popping, then did the same with the other.

"Nice driving, Officer." He smiled, postcombat shakes hitting now, that goofy energy. "They teach you that at the academy?"

She laughed, a nervous sound. "Jesus."

"Mary," he said. "You were saying Hail Marys."

"I was?" She shook her head. "Didn't even notice. Haven't said a Hail Mary since I was sixteen."

"I guess somebody was listening."

"Guess so." She put on her blinker for a left turn onto Thirty-fifth.

"Where are you headed?"

"The Stevenson. Put some distance."

He settled back into his seat. From the expressway they could get most anywhere, then wind their way back to Washington's place at leisure. The light at the lonely corner ahead was green. He could see the darkness of the river just west of them. The windshield wipers thunked back and forth, strangely comforting.

They were almost through the turn when the Escalade jackhammered into them. The Honda rocketed forward, spinning, the back wheels lifting. The spiderwebbed rear window exploded, fragments of safety glass raining in sparkling slow motion. There was a blur of headlights, flashbulb bright. The world spun like a carousel. Through the windshield he saw the pitted and scarred landscape of some kind of construction site swing by, replaced by a flash of the truck that had rammed them, then a metal railing and yawning darkness. He felt a sick slippy sensation as the Honda hit the guardrail, half bending it and half bouncing over it, and briefly they hung in a fantasy of flight, wheels spinning over nothing.

Then black water rushed up to meet them.

The impact slammed Jason against the seatbelt, his head snapping forward, white stars flaring. The front of the car plowed water up in a shimmering arc lit by one unbroken headlight. He just had time to wonder if the water would be cold before it started pouring through the shattered windows.

It was.

He gasped for breath, shook his head, dazed. Felt like he'd been hit by a linebacker, the wind yanked out of him, vision darting and narrow. He fumbled at his seatbelt as the Chicago River rushed into the car, the water sheened with oil.

Beside him, Cruz moaned.

Jason looked over, saw her sprawled across the steering wheel, blood trickling from her forehead. Her fingers fluttered like she were waving away bugs.

"Elena?" Water was coming in at an unbelievable rate, gushing over the side of the car. He tugged at his seatbelt, fingers unwieldy. The release button seemed stubborn, and it took a moment to realize he was pressing the wrong side. "Are you all right?"

She moaned again, straightened slowly. In the heat of the chase, she hadn't had time to buckle her seatbelt. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, her bangs wet. He leaned over and the car reacted to his movement like a tipping rowboat. The water had filled to seat level. The windshield cracked in lightning ripples.

"Elena. Let's go!" Her eyes seemed to spin glassy in her head, then she blinked, long slow blinks like she was focusing. She nodded at him.

Free of his belt, Jason scrambled half over his seat, splashing in the back for the briefcase. It was too dark to see, and the angle hurt his head, blood rushing in to make the world pulse. He bumped something, lost it, reached again. Found one leather edge jammed under the seat. The briefcase must have slid under and gotten wedged in the impact. He leaned over, breath coming hard, tugging.

Cruz moaned, and he looked over to see her with her head back on the steering wheel. Dark blood ran down her cheek. She lay there like she were taking a nap.

"Elena!" He made his voice snap. "We have to move."

She stirred, then slumped again.

The windshield creaked from the pressure of water. If it gave, the car would go like a brick.

He was bent over the seat, the edge of the briefcase in one hand. He yanked at it, and it gave a little, but then stopped. It was wedged on something, the handle probably caught. He could get it. He was certain. It wouldn't take a minute.