The Boy [mxb]

1

The roar of the engine is thunderous, a whole-body thrumming that rattles every bone in my body. Adrenaline whips through my veins as the cruiser whips around the serpentine road, tires squealing and burning the asphalt.

The radio crackles to life.

"Officers on the pursuit, call suspect vehicle was last seen heading east-bound past the medical centre, requesting units to head up. Suspect is in a red Mustang-"

I gun the engine, now pushing a breakneck eighty.

Static flares.

"-supervisor wants a quadrant set up east to the suspect-"

City lights rush by in a whirling kaleidoscope of color. Car horns blare in shrieking cacophony as I swerve deftly around civilians and parked vehicles.

More radio static, and then:

"Roger that, dispatch. I have four units with me; we'll form a static quadrant southeast of his location-"

The suspect comes into my field of view; he reaches through the open window of his Mustang and flashes me the middle finger.

Because - even though I've stormed into armed criminal fortresses, held fractured skulls together, tackled men to the ground halfway through beating their children to death, stared into the eyes of death and down the barrel of a gun too many times to count, pulled people from burning buildings, cut car doors off to free trapped crash survivors, watched my brothers and sisters drop like flies on the job - I'm quaking in my boots at the display of toughness from this big bad guy.

I roll my eyes.

Flooring it, I start tailing him.

"There he is; I see him," I radio in. "Control five-sixteen. Driver spotted me... Yeah, he's not stopping. Code three."

I drop it after that. It's a breakneck pursuit, navigating the busy New York night traffic with senses sharpened by the adrenaline. The earsplitting wail of the blaring sirens is deafening, lights sending off bright shocks of red in the dark.

The radio crackles again.

"Guy just whipped past me; I'm on him."

The dispatcher comes on.

"Upper east and west districts, please be advised, we've got a ten-fifty suspect southbound, now near Central Park - all units in the vicinity please respond-"

"-some backup, ten-eighteen-"

Car horns blare; people jump out of the rogue driver's way as I tear down 110th street.

Car tires grind to a squealing halt; metal screams, sparks fly. I swear under my breath, deftly maneuvering the cruiser around the battered vehicle. Tires crunch against asphalt, churning up debris, spinning back onto the road.

"Suspect just hit a parked vehicle on 59th, continuing south," I report grimly. "Looked like a 2000 model red Volvo."

"Attention all units, pursuit condition is still three; I repeat, condition three. Please update situation-"

"Ten-four," I mutter, focused intently on the maniac in front of me. "Still on him, no change."

"I've lost the vehicle. Repeat, vehicle lost."

"I got him, stand by," I affirm. "I'm gonna try and stay with him..."

More squad cars close in on the suspect, sirens wailing and lights ablaze.

Suddenly, a gunshot fires over the roaring car engines - then another. Screaming. More car horns. The suspect's got a handgun pointed out the driver's side window.