One of the black SUVs accelerated, pulling into the lane beside us.

I saw the tinted windows, the dark silhouette of the driver.

They didn’t have emergency lights.

These weren’t active-duty military or state police.

These were Voss’s private recovery teams.

“Hang on,” Mara said.

She slammed on the brakes.

The tires lost traction for a fraction of a second, hydroplaning over a puddle.

The black SUV shot past us, its brakes tail-lighting red.

Mara yanked the wheel to the right, hard.

We skidded across the exit lane toward a dark, industrial bypass road.

The second SUV followed us, its bumper clipping our rear quarter panel with a loud, metallic crunch.

The impact sent us sliding toward the guardrail.

Mara corrected the slide, her arms shaking with the effort.

“Where does this road go?” she asked.

“Refineries,” I said, checking the dim dashboard map. “Industrial yards. It’s a dead end near the river.”

“We aren’t going to make it to the state line,” Mara said.

The first SUV had recovered and was already turning around, heading back down the bypass ramp toward us.