Carol Cail

The traffic light turned yellow when Maxey was twenty yards from the intersection. Her right foot shilly-shallied between brake and accelerator while her mind did a quick calculation of the pros and cons of running it.
Almost midnight. No traffic. No pedestrians. Minor cross street. Her toe pointed at the accelerator.
On the other hand . . . . Coming toward her from half a mile ahead was a vehicle the color and contour of a Boulder police car. Maxey's foot wavered left.
Ex-hubby Reece would never fail to run a stale yellow . . . . Maxey stepped firmly on the brake.
As the Toyota coasted to a stop, two things happened. Her tape deck clicked over to a second side of Genesis, and a stealthy black shape catapulted left to right across her path.