Tell Them This When I Die

Nobody Does Anything Like Eris

The car grinds to a halt, slow and purposeful. For a moment, the sunlight pauses as it streams through the glass.

Adam leans forward in his seat. It's a gentle movement, one meant not to startle anything. His gaze moves to focus on the car to his right, sleek and sporty. The heel of his foot slides over slightly, holding firm on the brake but ready to pivot.

He can only see her profile, but it's enough. Her eyes rest on the red light in front of her, but her left finger taps slowly against the wheel. She can feel him looking. Out of her peripheral, she watches him lean forward a little more. Her hand rests on the stick.

Adam studies the curve of her jaw, her Mediterranean nose. They're hard to miss.

He lets out one, long strained breath as he brings the radio to his lips. His fingers have started shaking faintly.

"Dispatch, this is patrol five-oh-one."

The radio crackles once, twice. Then, "Dispatch to patrol five-oh-one. How's it going, down there, Hughey?"

Adam does not move his gaze from her. His nerves jump with anticipation. "Decent," he replies. "I'm about to be in pursuit of a black Maserati headed northbound down Main just past Pickerl."

There's a moment of silence in the stiff air. Both of Adam's windows are open, and so are hers. The air is thick and hot. She can hear him, but she shows no sign of it.

"Sorry, Hughey—did you say about to be?"

Adam does not move his eyes, his neck, his fingers. The traffic light gleams red. "That's right. Driver is Caucasian female, five-eight, black hair."

Silence returns for another moment. The radio crackles again, "Is this Diakos, Hughey? Can you visually confirm?"

Adam doesn't move. "I can."

Commotion floats up in the background of the radio. The voice dips, excited. "Light her up," the radio says. "Air is on standby."

"Copy," Adam says. "Just confirm for me that the warrant is still active." His fingers curl against the wheel, the muscles in his calf tensing.

The light shines red. Mocking, waiting.

"The system says it is," the radio answers.

Adam clicks the radio back into his vest. "Roger that," he says.

The breeze wafts in her window, ruffling her hair a little. Her jaw lifts slightly, and her lips part. She puts pressure on the stick. Any moment now.

The lights on the other side blink yellow. Four seconds. One, two, three, four. It blinks red.

Adam turns his gaze to their light. Her car is the faster one, but that's hardly important. He just needs to make sure he can cut in behind her. Light her up.

The double red seems to last eternity. All four directions of traffic have come to a stop.

As fast as Eris' fingers are, the computers in his automatic are faster. Automatics beat manuals off the line—unless, of course, the manual driver knows how to jump the light.

And nobody jumps lights like Eris.

The sound of the Maserati comes a second before the green light shines. As soon as it does, Adam slides his foot over and presses it firmly to the ground. The car shifts, the engine grinds, and the car takes off.

He pulls in behind her and flicks the sirens. They scream to life, shattering the calm stillness. They've left traffic crawling behind them, but the speedometer of the Maserati is approaching one hundred, then sliding past. Approaching one hundred twenty, and sliding past. They're coming up to the next line of traffic.