High Speed

High Speed

The 2004, Mazda 3’s Pirelli PZero tires bit hard into a left turn. It fishtailed right, then left as Sean counter-turned the steering wheel, battling a spin-out. The Mazda side-checked an old VW parked in a no parking zone, which sapped his speed, but straightened him out. He pumped the gas, measuring his traction, then floored it. The target’s tail lights disappeared around the next corner.

Sean hated chases like this. On a freeway or country roads they were great, as long as you had a faster car. But in the city, the risks were too great. Pedestrians almost never know when you’re coming. And if the guy you’re chasing just zipped by, there was always some moron who would amble out into the middle of the road in a stupor, staring in amazement at the rapidly shrinking car. Sean imagined they probably all pissed their pants when he would then shoot by them so close that the vacuum trailing his car sucked them off their feet. Not to mention other cars, bike couriers, and construction. With so many dangerous and unpredictable factors, most people didn’t have the balls to sustain a high-speed, inner-city car chase more than a few blocks.

He rounded the next corner with a little more finesse. The cars just ahead all had their brake lights on, a common reaction when some psycho screams by you by a difference of forty miles an hour. “Keep those tail lights on,” he thought. “Here comes a second helping.”

The target was obviously beyond desperate. They gave Sean the inner-city function because he’s been through the most chases with the least collateral damage. And he’s the only one who hasn’t totaled a car, yet. But trying to keep up with this guy, he thought maybe his number was up.

“Damn.” The target just ducked under a yellow light. The adrenaline blasting through his body threatened to burst Sean’s arteries wide open. He swerved left. A pedestrian wet himself. Just ahead, energy-saving headlights clicked on from beyond Sean’s field of view, lighting up the intersection. Their signal was green. Sean had the pedal thrust down so hard, he didn’t know if it could come back up. The deafening mechanical whine of violent cylinder revolutions eclipsed his thoughts. Neon signs blurred by. His knuckles turned white.

A small depression in the pavement marked where the two streets met, the car dipped, and the Mazda’s undercarriage dragged sparks into the intersection. Nice effect. He clipped a bumper on his left, nudging him to the right. There was no time to compensate. He caught the rear bumper of the car in the next lane. The two cars embraced in a counter-clockwise dance for a split-second, but his forward momentum carried him through. He fought the car’s urge to pirouette, countered right, massaged the gas, and he was through the intersection.

The gap between Sean and his target had grown. In a high speed chase, the loss of a few seconds can mean the loss of a target. And then he heard it. The sound he was waiting for. The signal that told him he had fulfilled his function. The wail of police sirens grew as Sean watched the target zip around another corner. They knew Sean wouldn’t be able to catch this guy in the city, at least not before one of them got himself killed. That’s not what they wanted, they needed information. He was a jittery guy, and they knew he’d get spooked and flee the city once the sirens sounded. There were three bridges and a tunnel leading out of the city, and they had an agent at each, ready to casually and inconspicuously tail the target to whatever little motel he felt safe in. Then they’d have him.

Sean got off the busy streets. He parked in a small, darkened lot and left the keys in the ignition. What did he care? It wasn’t his car. He walked a block and hailed a cab. “Take me to the La Quinta Inn on Alexandra Road. And, uh, take the scenic route.”