Free Killing Red by Henry Perez

driver might do next, fidgeting, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, and growing tired of this bullshit, Chapa decided to make his move. He drove away from the curb, and turned into the next driveway. A small woman wearing a pale green smock and a lavender bandana looked up from the garden she was working on along the front of her house. He tossed a nod her way, then pulled out and reversed direction.
    Chapa figured that as much as the driver of the green sedan wanted to stay on his tail, it had to be even more important that they avoid being seen. Chapa was going to make that more difficult. He had to get a look at the sedan’s license plate.
    But as he raced back to where the car had come to a stop, Chapa saw no sign of the vehicle. That changed once he reached the next intersection. He turned right and sped up until the green sedan was no more than a block away.
    That must’ve been when the driver spotted him, because he matched Chapa’s speed, then accelerated even more. Chapa wasn’t comfortable doing fifty, fifty-five, now sixty down narrow neighborhood streets. He slowed at each intersection, a precaution that cost him precious distance every time.
    One block gave way to another as the two cars danced around parked vehicles, and maneuvered through curves, conceding a bit of speed until the next straightaway. Tri-level houses and two-car garages rushed by as the Toyota’s engine moaned with each press of the accelerator. The gap between them was holding steady, and Chapa’s only hope was that the driver would run into a red light or a crowded four-way.
    Then he caught a break. Three intersections ahead and almost a full block beyond the green car, a stop-light turned yellow, and Chapa knew there was no chance the driver would get through before it went red. Even if he turned right at the light, it should still slow him down a little, maybe just enough for Chapa to read his plate number.
    Chapa watched as the green sedan approached the intersection. The light turned red, but the vehicle kept going, weaving around a car that was making a left turn, serenaded by angry horns as it just barely avoided another.
    The car was still in Chapa’s sights as he arrived at the intersection. Chapa paused for a moment, just long enough to see that the nearest oncoming car was at least thirty yards away. Then he hit the gas and blew through. A car horn wailed from somewhere behind him.
    The green sedan had slowed down some, the driver apparently deciding that he’d ditched Chapa at the light. A block and a half became a dozen car lengths, then even fewer, and Chapa started focusing on the plate. Just a little bit closer.
    But the heavy roar of the sedan’s engine and the screeching of tires told Chapa he’d been spotted. In an instant, the gap between the two vehicles doubled, then Chapa lost sight of the car as it made a left turn without slowing down.
    Chapa was pushing seventy as he closed in on the same corner. He kept his foot off the brake and took the turn at full speed, jamming the wheel hard to the left. But instead of seeing the green sedan, Chapa’s vision became a blur of blue as he swerved to miss the massive garbage truck that was a few short feet away and bearing down hard.
    He avoided a collision by the narrow width of a heartbeat, but overcompensated in the process. The Toyota’s right front tire crashed hard into the curb, and the car went airborne for a moment before slamming back down to the pavement.
    The truck rumbled through the intersection as though nothing had happened, but Chapa wasn’t sure his car would be able to continue as easily. Chapa’s palms, like the middle of his back, were slick with sweat. This had gone far enough. He put the car in park, and took his first good breath since he’d turned around in that driveway.
    Two blocks’ worth of neatly kept middle-class homes away, the driver of the sedan responded by slowing all the way down to a crawl. He was mocking Chapa, taunting