I looked in the passenger side mirror.

Three cars back, a dark gray sedan was weaving through the slow-moving highway traffic.

Its headlights flashed once.

“Marisol,” I whispered.

“I see them,” Marisol said, her grip tightening on the steering wheel.

“What do we do?” I asked.

“Hold on,” Marisol said.

She jerked the wheel to the right, cutting across the shoulder toward the exit ramp for downtown Miami.

Behind us, the gray sedan veered sharply across two lanes of traffic, tires screeching against the wet asphalt.

The chase was on.

My phone went dead in my hand.

The screen flashed black, and then a new text message appeared from an unsaved contact.

I opened it.

It was a photo of the front door of Marisol’s law office.

Underneath the image, a single line of text read:

*We are already inside.*

Marisol spun the steering wheel hard to the right.

The tires shrieked as we skidded onto the wet pavement of the exit ramp.

The gray sedan tried to follow, but a delivery truck cut between us, horn blaring.

I looked back through the rain-streaked rear window.