Justice(7)
I gain ground and he speeds up, so I do as well, but then out of nowhere he switches lanes and slams on the breaks so he’s behind me. Motherfucker. Both feet punch the break, my heart and stomach almost leap out of my rib cage. Thank God I have on my seatbelt or I would have broken my ribs on the steering wheel, instead I lose all the air in my lungs. But I’m not totally lucky. I lose a second because, unlike him, I come to a complete stop, smoke from my tires visible in the back. I know what his next move is and I’m not ready for it. I accelerate as fast as I can but not fast enough. The SUV zooms alongside me, smashing me into the side, sparks flying as metal rubs against concrete. He pins me, but I keep my foot on the petal. He’s still behind me and the bastard actually salutes me. I’ll wipe that smug fucking attitude right out of him.
I aim the gun out the window, but he swerves to the other lane for a moment before smashing into my side again. My hand hits the car door and I lose the gun, my wrist vibrating in pain. I lose control of the car, spinning to the other lane, the back of my car hitting the concrete on that side. I’ve practiced this maneuver at the academy and my beautiful instincts are the only thing that keeps me alive.
Alkaline doesn’t wait around to check on me. The SUV whizzes away toward the blinking lights of the drawbridge. I lose precious seconds before I realize my instincts forgot to remind me I set the parking brake to ease the crash. I turn the car around and continue my pursuit. That fucker is not getting off this bridge.
I’d put him five seconds ahead of me, and quickly spot him just as a huge foghorn bellows to signal the raising of the bridge. About fucking time. The wooden partitions lower as the bridge slowly rises. He’s trapped.
But I’ve forgotten I’m chasing a crazy man. The SUV plows through the partition and up the incline. No way, no fucking way. I watch as the car accelerates up the metal to the top, and glides through the air like Blue Angel toward the other side.
There’s no way my car can make that leap, so I come to a skidding stop right next to the splintered wood. I hold onto the steering wheel for dear life, my breath coming out in short bursts but only for a few moments. I barely realize I’m climbing out of my smoking, damaged car, walking past the stunned old man who must control the bridge, to the side. I have to know if he made it.
And there he is. He’s leaning on the side too, a huge smile plastered on his handsome face. I watch, unable to do a damn thing as he blows me a dramatic kiss with both hands and waves before walking out of sight. Motherfucker.
“Was that really Alkaline?” the old man asks beside me.
“Yeah,” I say though my ragged breaths.
“Then may God help us.”
“Amen.”
***
Pandemonium, pure and utter pandemonium.
I wait outside, sitting on the steps staring at the now clogged parking lot. Ambulances, fire trucks, police cruisers, and tech vans all vie for space in this mess. A blue tent is being set up where forensic techs in their white coveralls swarm, collecting evidence and taking notes. The coroner and her assistant stand by to take the Asian man’s body to the morgue. I can’t stop shivering and it’s not from the cold. The adrenaline has worn off and now I’m spastic. Or it could just be the guilt.
A gray Crown Victoria is stopped at the gate, but then pulls through. I stand up and take a deep breath. I am not looking forward to this. Out of the car comes three men, the rest of my surrogate family. Detectives Seth Mirabelle and Mitch Kowalski, both in their early forties and each packing a few extra pounds in their wrinkled suits, are followed by our boss, Lieutenant Harry O’Hara. He’s a few years younger than Cam, mid-forties, with medium height, medium build, and fine brown hair just starting to go gray at the temples that shines red in the light. His Roman nose is straight, his lips are thin, his chin is a little weak, and blue eyes are hidden behind rectangular silver framed glasses. He’s handsome, though. Something about the eyes. Intense at times.
I stand as they get closer. “Evening, guys.”
“If it isn’t Speed Racer,” Kowalski says.
“Shut up,” I mutter.
“Are you alright? Are you injured at all?” Harry asks.
“Just my pride.”
“You did all you could, I know you did,” Harry says.
“Thank you, sir.”
He meets my eyes with a nod. “So, get us up to speed. Who is the man in the lot?”
“Dr. John Qwan, psychiatrist here. Pretty straightforward. Ryder snapped his neck and stole his car. The real show is upstairs.”
I lead them through the bustling lobby. They had to shut off the metal detectors because they were constantly screeching. We take the service stairs to the second floor and through the empty exit. The narrow hallway is packed to capacity with half a dozen techs taking blood and acid drops. Right as I step out of the stairwell, a forensic tech snaps a picture of a pool of blood by my right foot. A white numbered card sits just off to the side of the grotesque sight.