“He is going to do something,” I said.

“He is cornered,” Damiano said. “Cornered men make mistakes.”

“He doesn’t make mistakes when he’s angry,” I said. “He gets cruel.”

Damiano did not answer.

He pulled his phone back out and began typing quickly.

I looked at his profile in the dim light of the dashboard.

He looked tired, the shadows under his eyes darker than usual.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

“Would you have let me help you if I did?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Then that is why,” he said.

We turned onto the bridge.

The metal cables rose up into the dark, rainy sky like the ribs of a giant beast.

Below us, the river was black and churning.

The lead SUV was about fifty yards ahead of us, its red taillights cutting through the gray mist.

Behind us, the third SUV followed closely.

The radio in our dashboard crackled to life.

Leon’s voice came through, sharp and static-heavy.

“Boss, we have a vehicle trailing the rear guard.”

Damiano picked up the receiver from the console.

“Identify it,” Damiano said.