The Boy [mxb]

29

I surmise to my task force that the list of perps either dead or in custody has lengthened. The shooter, Jerry Stanton. The bomb technician, Scott Bingham. The butcher, Ted Griegs. The surveillance expert, Ned Anderson. The driver in the shooting, Jeff Wheeler. The car wrecker, Jerome Frente. The three henchmen paying everyone on C.K.'s behalf: Paul, Michael and Rocco. Jerry's girlfriend, Audrina Raleigh, who knew he was an assassin.

Not in custody are the people responsible for Ciel's disappearance, probably a man we're calling C.K.

Carl Penelli, the FBI's lead suspect, looks good for that role.

"We compared agent Rossi's findings with the incidents that happened to me over the last few months and conclude that they match. He spent weeks and months getting to know me and my routine. But then, something about his M.O. changed. Instead of just coming to kill me, he didn't strike when he should have. We think my case is different from his previous murders. Exactly why the difference, I don't know. But I don't think the objective was ever to kill me."

I go on to explain that we have Google earth satellite images and government recon satellite access, giving us real time NSA shots of C.K.'s lair. And they're paying off, because I'm interrupted by a report that a car was seen pulling onto the property. When the driver saw the police cruiser stationed out back, he peeled away.

"Dare," Violetta's reluctant voice hails bad news. "C.K.'s on the move. We got him, Dare. Ciel's blood was all over his lair."

"I'll kill him." The whispered promise is all I can manage.

"Dare, stand back. Let the other cops catch him. Just...start coming to terms with the fact that he's gone, Dare."

"We've got a broadcast out on the vehicle," another officer shouts.

"Deshawn, what's your twenty?"

"Highway's got Penelli."

"Where?"

"All over Manhattan. High-speed chase."

Ken and I instantly race to my car.

I start it up with a violent rev of the engine. My car starts thrumming, transitioning smoothly from a purr to roar. I turn my sirens on and navigate onto the streets. It's frustratingly slow until I hit the highway. Then I can pick up the speed. The other cars on the road give me a wide berth, merging into the other lanes. This baby can really run. The only bottleneck is the cars up ahead. When I get a free stretch of road, I kick it up to the max. The speed is burning my bones, rattling every molecule of my body. 

I'm not out to test the limits of my sports car.

I'm out for blood. To kill. Make no mistake.

There are sirens blaring up ahead. I get a visual of the car I'm chasing. It's a Bugatti, incomparably faster than the police cruisers tailing it.

The Bugatti is ruthless in its race to escape, side-swiping cars that are too slow to move out of the way.

Metal grinds against metal in a screeching cacophony, accompanied by the squealing of tires against asphalt. The road is smoking and my adrenaline is high.

The Bugatti driver leans on his horn as he veers dangerously close to a slower car up ahead. The latter can't move in time and gets rear-ended, spinning into the path of the oncoming vehicles.

The car keeps going despite the damage, but the momentary setback allows a cruiser pull up parallel. The two vehicles scrape and knock against each other. I hear the sound of metal splintering and see sparks flash on the road.