Kevin jumped up and ran. No point in waiting for Seth and Weedy Tom to find him. The two men were in the hall, blocking his escape route to the back, so he bolted toward the front door. Locked! Behind him, heavy footsteps thudded. He rushed into the front office and flung open the window, vaulting over the sill, outside.

Where to? He couldn’t outrun two adults on a straight road. His eyes darted to the blue Kawasaki Ninja in front of the motorcycle shop. The keys were in the ignition. That’d do. He leaped on, kicked away the side stand, and let the engine roar to life.

“Hey!” Someone hurtled through the window after him. Kevin opened the throttle. The motorbike took off like an arrow. He had to slam the brakes so as not to crash into the buildings on the opposite side. A shout of protest rang from the motorcycle shop. Kevin swung back onto the street in a zig-zag and zoomed across the main road, through a red light. Tires screeched and cars honked. Kevin glanced back. A black sports car was right behind him, speeding past a pile-up on the main street. Its license plate started with 8.

Unnerved, Kevin accelerated. The sports car had been in the Greenglobe customer parking spot when he arrived. How had he missed that? Some spy he was! The Kawasaki swayed as he switched up a gear. Kevin held on, terrified. The headwind cut off his breath. Side streets flashed past. He hit the brakes and whirled left onto Miss—something street, then left again—and suddenly everything looked Japanese: udon noodle signs, bamboo curtains, and pagoda-style roofs. Kevin mounted the curb and slalomed through a Zen garden. Pebbles flew, and a man swore in Japanese then dived for cover as the pursuing sports car ripped down his garden fence. Kevin cut back onto the street. A crash echoed behind him, followed by honking. Still the sports car stayed on his tail.

Up ahead, a bus trundled along the street. Kevin raced down the white lane division and cut in front of it to shake his pursuer. Suddenly the street opened up into a giant intersection and he raced through a green light, swishing past cars on either side of him. Damn, this bike was fast! With a frightened swearword, he turned off the big boulevard onto a street called Tennessee, then left again. The sports car followed, so close it almost knocked into his motorbike from behind.

Kevin glanced over his shoulder. Wind tugged at his sleeves, threatening to push him off balance. A highway sign flashed up ahead, and on his right, train tracks appeared. Speeding cars still surrounded him. He tried to turn into the left lane but the sports car zoomed up and drew level with him just as the road split.

He took the only way out: the train tracks. The motorbike buckled as it hit the metal rails. He wanted to pull over and stop, but sparks flew behind him: the sports car had veered off the street and followed him onto the tracks. Kevin swore and let his speedometer climb to eighty miles per hour. Oh boy, this was not as much fun as it looked in the movies!

He watched the sports car careen closer in his side mirrors, impeded only by the narrowness of the track. Eighty-five miles per hour. Kevin gasped for air; he could barely breathe, in the strong airstream.

How often did trains pass here? And in what direction? The rails widened, and a platform appeared up ahead. A large crowd of passengers stood waiting on one side. Not good. A train could not be far off. Air rushed in Kevin’s ears, forcing his eyes closed, tearing his breath away. He did not dare look away from the track to check on the sports car.

At last a red-and-white barrier appeared. The railroad crossing. Relieved, Kevin veered to the side to turn off the rails. But at that moment orange lights flashed and the arms of the barrier lowered themselves. No. No!

The approaching train was shooting toward him like a bullet. Kevin twisted the Kawasaki into a turn. His left knee almost touched the ground. Sparks flew as the train driver hit the brakes—too late. For a second the wheels of the motorbike skittered toward the wheels of the train, then the Kawasaki slid under the barrier, onto the street.

Behind Kevin, a massive crash thundered. He did not manage to check what had happened, the motorbike no longer obeyed his command. The handlebars spun in figure eights. He made it across the main street, hit the brakes—too hard—and went flying over the bike onto the hood of a parked car.

Winded, ears buzzing, he opened his eyes. Beneath him crunched a cracked windshield. Pain seared through his right shoulder, which he’d already injured when he fell onto the roof of Ugo Cafe at the mall. He clutched a hand to it and rotated it cautiously. From the main street, honking and shouting rang out, oddly muffled. He expected people to come rushing his way, but nobody did. When he clambered off the hood of the car he realized why. They were all running toward the train and the smashed remains of a red pickup that had come to a standstill in front of the train engine. Two men stood beside it, their panicked voices rising as they shouted at each other. There was no trace of the black sports car. It had disappeared, like a ghost.

Kevin glanced at the blue Kawasaki that lay on the street a few yards away. It looked like it had survived the crash. Sweat dripped off his left eyebrow as he dragged it upright. He brushed a hand over his forehead—and swallowed. It came back with blood. He checked in the side mirror: there was a cut above his eyebrow, not deep, but it was bleeding like crazy. He reached for his T-shirt to tear off a strip, but thought better of it and pressed his hand to the wound. What a moment to be wearing designer brands. And how was he gonna hide this from John when they went to Ash’s party?

Wait, John! The party! He was running late. Patting down his jacket, he pulled out his cell phone. He tried to turn it on until he noticed the spiderweb crack across the screen. The whole handset had snapped in half. So much for asking his cousin to come and pick him up.

“Hey, you OK?” A young man stepped across the street toward him.

“Yeah, uh . . . fine.” Kevin shot a hurried glance at the Kawasaki’s GPS. It seemed intact. Hands trembling, he pushed the ignition. He could think of about a thousand things he would enjoy more than another hell ride through LA, but odds were he’d get arrested if he stayed. Besides, the photo he had taken at Greenglobe of the guy in the marijuana T-shirt was gone with his phone. If he wanted to find out Charlie’s identity, he had to get to Ash’s party.