Chào các bạn! Vì nhiều lý do từ nay Truyen2U chính thức đổi tên là Truyen247.Pro. Mong các bạn tiếp tục ủng hộ truy cập tên miền mới này nhé! Mãi yêu... ♥

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.

Adam tilts his chin to speak to the radio, "This is five-oh-one. Suspect is refusing to stop. Currently in pursuit."

"Air is dispatched," the radio replies. "Careful down there, Hughey."

Adam's foot is still on the ground. He approaches one hundred fifty, the trees and barricades whirling past. It's futile, probably dangerous, too, but if he can catch her—if she's in the middle of a delivery—this would be career-altering.

Eris reaches forward slightly to turn on the radio. She usually has it off—she likes to listen to the sounds of traffic, the sounds of the world and what it's doing, but she does this kind of thing better with music.

The first station is pop music, and she listens to that all night long. She scans past it, briefly stopping on a classical station, which might've been funny. The next station is rock, and that matches the mood. The wind screams through the windows, knotting her hair. She rolls them all up. Streamlined, like an athlete.

She's in sixth already, coming up to the car in front of her at one hundred sixty-three kilometres per hour. Eris flicks her blinker on—just for fun—and passes the car in a blur.

Traffic begins to get heavy again past the bridge, so she's back to fifth now. Clutch in, clutch out. Cars are parting for the sirens, but that's not good. The best chases are the ones in thick traffic, so Eris switches the Maserati to the far-right lane, putting a minivan in between her and Adam.

The minivan driver is an idiot, so they don't realize they've gotten caught in the middle of a chase. The sirens are screaming, turning, but now Eris is in the merge three cars before him.

The Maserati takes the merge onto River in fourth. She pulls in front of an Audi, and the driver lays on the horn.

Eris doesn't bother to roll her eyes. Audi drivers are more reliable than atomic clocks. She pulls out to the right, slams on the breaks, then slides in behind the Audi and pulls up within four inches of his tailgate, steady on the gas. The Audi swerves, annoyed, but Eris doesn't back off.

Adam takes the merge with his lights glaring, pulling up behind her again. They're approaching city center, which means he'll have to stop the chase. The traffic is already too thick.

"Hughey," the radio says, "they're going to ask you to go dark as soon as she passes Leighton."

Adam glances over his shoulder as he changes lanes, catching the sleek edge of the Maserati pulling over to the left.

Eris taps her finger on the wheel as she glances in her rear-view. They'll order him dark right after Leighton. There's no fun in that.

The light in front of her is red, but she still pulls into the left lane, weaving around a Toyota that has forgotten how to drive.

Eris glances to her left, where the traffic is coming from. She wants to go back the way she came. She steals a look in the rear-view again. Adam is pulling in front of the Toyota, coming to a stop behind her. She can see the crease between his eyebrows. Eris doesn't let herself smile.

It's timing—that's all it is. They're going sixty; she'll be going something like forty off the line. Combining those speeds, she just has to time it between the breaks.

Adam struggles to see beyond the Maserati. The radio crackles, "Sergeant Hughes, this is air dispatch. We see you at the intersection of River and Cathy, is that right?"

"That's right," Adam replies. "She's stuck at the protected left turn. If we get a car going southbound on Cathy, we can cut her off."

The Maserati creeps forward slightly, causing Adam to pause. The light is still red. She wouldn't—she would never

Eris pulls out into the intersection, violently spinning the wheel. First, second, back to first. Clutch in, clutch out. No one drives like Eris. The back of the Maserati drifts out towards oncoming traffic, the nose dipping back the way she came and completing the U-turn. The cars honk and swerve, and one gets within an inch of Eris' back bumper before she steps on the gas.

Adam's looks to his left, and she glances over at him as she completes the turn. She spins the wheel with one hand, lifting the other to give him the finger.

The air dispatch is laughing over the radio. "For fucks stake, this bitch can drive."

Adam scoots his car up to the line as the Maserati gears up and races away. "I'm doing it," Adam tells the radio.

"Hughey, are you insane?"

Adam honks, and cross traffic finally gets the message to stop on their green. Adam spins the wheel and steps on the gas. He reaches one hundred twenty before he's back behind the Maserati again, sirens wailing. They've beaten traffic now, causing the road to be dead as they near the bridge again.

Eris' movements are sharp and quick. She spins the wheel to the right lane and slams on the brakes. The Maserati screeches to a halt, leaving Adam flying by, sirens blazing.

Eris places her arm over the passenger seat and puts the car in reverse. She backs up to the fourth side street and spins the wheel right, backing the car in. She keeps her eyes on the back window as she reverses the car through the maze of side streets. She can hear the blades of the chopper overhead, following her.

She can see the covered lot as she backs through the entrance. She pulls into it, stark and empty. It's connected to an abandoned storage facility owned by Nyx Entertainment, which is why Adam will race here the moment he can.

Eris turns off the car and gets out. Switching cars is a common tactic, for it confuses both the chopper and the cop. Instead of a narrow city search for a black Maserati, they'll be looking for every single car model that exists.

With one exception.

Eris' heels click softly on the concrete as she switches keys. She starts up the next car and adjusts the mirrors before pulling back out, smooth and quiet.

Adam pulls into the lot, via direction from the chopper, to find her black Maserati parked silently. Another patrol car—this one marked, unlike Adam's—is there already, so he rolls down his window to speak to them.

"Sarge—does the chopper know what she left with?" the driver asks.

Adam gets out of his car, gesturing for the other driver to do the same. "They have no clue. Switch with me. I want a marked car so people will get out of my damn way."

"Roger that, Sarge. You want Dipper?"

Adam gets into the marked car, glancing at the passenger. "Yeah, can't hurt. You want to have some fun, Dipper?"

Constable Dipper—a flubby, white-faced man—nods twice. "Sure do, Sarge."

Adam adjusts his mirrors, reversing out of the lot. He pulls back out onto River, watching the traffic race by.

"Any clue?" Adam asks the radio.

The sound of the chopper has subsided as they search back out south. "Not one," they reply. "Think we've lost her."

"For fuck's sake." Adam's frustration is building, whirling about. He'd been so close.

He pulls the marked car up to the next stoplight, still cursing. His eyes are searching. She has to be here, somewhere. In one of these damn cars. Even in extreme cases, she wouldn't drive a car worth anything under sixty thousand, so those are all out. She wouldn't be caught dead in a minivan, so not that one either. Can't be the Maserati, because she was just in—

Adam tilts his head. The black car is two lanes over, two cars ahead in the right merge lane. "Hey Dipper," Adam says. "What kind of car are we looking for?"

Dipper shrugs, searching the cars. "Dunno. Everything but a black Maserati, I guess."

Adam shakes his head, but it's more of a humorous gesture than anything. "You know what would be smart?" he says, putting on his right blinker. The Maserati edges forward slightly, disappearing behind another car at the light.

"What's that, Sarge?"

"Switching over from a black Maserati to a black Maserati," Adam answers. The lights go green, and Adam switches lanes.

Dipper glances over at the car. "Wouldn't we know if she owned two of the same car?" he asked.

"Not necessarily," Adam replies, switching again. "If she registered them as company cars, she could have thirty and we wouldn't have any clue."

The Maserati comes into view again, the traffic moving sluggishly.

"Are you sure it's her, Sarge?" Dipper asks.

"Not at all," Adam replies, switching lanes to the far right one, four cars behind the Maserati. "But it's exactly the kind of ballsy shit she would do."

Dipper leans over to look. "If it is her, she's turning right down Century."

Adam presses the accelerator. "I say we ram the shit out of her."

"Isn't that illegal, Sarge?"

Adam shrugs, turning down Century, which is nearly dead. "Not exactly. If they're a felon and previous attempts to arrest them have been futile, then we're well within our right to stop them with force."

"Then I say we ram the shit out of her."

Adam presses the accelerator. The Maserati still cruises in the parking lane, as calm as such a car could be.

"Seatbelt on?" Adam asks.

"Sure is," Dipper replies.

The car races by the buildings and the trees, coming up fast on the Maserati—when it suddenly comes to a crashing halt.

Adam can feel the snap in his neck the moment the cars connect, the airbags in the marked car ballooning. His ears ring from a moment, then go back to normal. The Maserati's decision to stop made that a far more dramatic crash than it should've been.

Adam is blinking out his confusion, reaching up to touch the back of his neck. Dust from the top of the dash whirls about in the car. He looks over at Dipper, then up at the ruined back of the Maserati. He better hope that it's her in there and not some innocent civilian.

He watches as the door opens, and Eris gets out. She walks to the back, glances at the damage. Looks back at Adam.

Adam ignores the pain in his neck. He touches his gun—just to make sure it's there. She comes up to his window and leans on the sill. The sunlight pours over her hair, gray eyes expressionless.

"Adam," she says. "You just hit my car."

Adam reaches out to unlock the door, but she presses down on the bumper near the sill.

"You know I like my cars," she says. "That was my favourite one."

Adam tries the bumper, but she presses it down again. He looks up at her. "Eris Diakos, you're under arrest for failing to pay the fine sentenced to you for resisting arrest and interfering with court proceedings."

"I love it when you say my full name, Adam," she replies, pushing down the bumper again.

Adam looks at Dipper. "Get out of the car," he orders.

Dipper looks from Eris to Adam. "But she's—she's a high felon—I mean, Sarge, technically, we can't have only one officer on a high felon—it's against protocol."

"He's right, Adam," Eris says. "It's against protocol."

Adam pushes at Dipper's shoulder. "She's not a violent felon, Dipper. She's never shot anybody—hell, she's never even wacked anybody with a gun. Just get out of the car so I can get out of the car."

"That's true, Dipper," Eris says, elbowing Adam's hand away from the bumper. "I won't shoot you, but I will outrun you."

"Get out of the car, Dipper," Adam snaps.

"You know I was a track star, Adam?" Eris asks, watching Dipper fumble with his door handle. "State champion, in the American equivalent. Mostly the middle distances—you know, a kilometer or two, that sort of thing." She looks back down at Adam. "But I still think I can kick your ass in twice that."

"If you run, Eris, you're looking at another fine and jail for your last fine."

"Am I? Look, Adam. Why don't you just come down to Nyx? We'll solve this over a martini. Or a gin and tonic, on the rocks—that's your drink, isn't it?"

It is, in fact, his drink. Adam glances over at Dipper, struggling out of the car.

"Come on, Adam," she says. "I ordered in expensive gin from Whales, just for you."

"Don't run, Eris," Adam insists. "You can't talk your way out of this shitstorm."

She sighs, leaning down to undo the straps on her heels. She shakes one off and brings the platform to the bumper, smashing it while locked so it can't be pulled back up.

Adam leans over to the passenger side, pushing at Dipper. He slams the door behind him, moving as fast as he can between the two destroyed cars.

"Fine, Adam," Eris says, tossing away the other heel and backing up into the road. "You want me to outrun you? I can do that."

Adam sprints out into the road after her, nearly tripping over one of her heels. His feet push off the concrete, faster and faster. His lungs expand with the humid air, boots skidding as he takes the corner after her. Adam can catch her. He may not be a track star, but he does place top three in the officer's fitness test each year.

He'll catch her—because he has to catch her. With her, it's now or never.

But then again, nobody runs like Eris.


Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: Truyen247.Pro