The screech of tires echoed through the desolate streets as the car took a sharp, violent turn, fishtailing before regaining control. Inside, the air was thick with tension, sweat, and gunpowder. Two robbers leaned out of the windows, their weapons spitting fury at the sea of police cars chasing them. Shell casings clinked and bounced inside the car, rolling underfoot as chaos reigned.
"Hold the wheel steady, goddammit!" shouted the lead robber, his shotgun clicking empty. He ducked back into the car, fumbling to reload as he grunted with frustration.
The driver, his knuckles white on the wheel, snapped his head toward him for half a second. "Steady? You fucking try it with a hole in your leg! We weren't supposed to do that! This was supposed to be a clean fucking job! Get in, get out—twenty minutes tops! Not this fuck fest!" His voice cracked with a mix of fear and rage, sweat pouring down his face and dripping off his chin.
The lead robber smirked bitterly, slamming fresh shells into the shotgun. "Yeah, yeah, I know. But sometimes shit doesn't go as planned. Suck it up and accept it."
The stocky robber, leaning out of the passenger window with an assault rifle, fired off another burst before ducking back in, his breathing ragged. "Bro, they didn't shoot back in the city because of the crowds, but now we're in the open. They're gonna fucking light us up!" His face was pale and streaked with blood from grazed bullet wounds on his cheek and arm, the injuries shallow but still stinging like hell.
From behind them came the booming voice of a police loudspeaker. "This is your final warning! Pull over and surrender, or we will open fire!"
"Shit, shit, shit," the driver hissed under his breath, his eyes darting between the road and the mirror. The wail of sirens was closing in, the flashing lights reflecting off the car's interior like a disco from hell.
The lead robber didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned back against the seat, surveying the chaos with a calculating gaze. His eyes swept over the piles of cash spilling from torn duffel bags, the bullet-riddled interior of the car, and his companions. The driver's thigh was wrapped hastily with a torn piece of his shirt, the blood soaking through but no longer flowing freely. The stocky robber was clutching his side, his arm trembling from the adrenaline and pain of his injuries.
Only the lead robber was untouched. His wicked grin grew wider as he slowly raised his handgun, the click of the hammer snapping everyone's focus.
"You know," he drawled, his voice unnervingly calm, "it's been a pleasure doing business with you guys. But…" He turned, his gun now pointed at the stocky robber's head. "You're not on the invited list."
"Wait, what—"
The crack of the gunshot was deafening, and the car seemed to lurch as the stocky robber's head snapped back violently. Blood, bone fragments, and gray brain matter exploded against the back windshield in a gruesome spray, the mess dripping down in thick, viscous streaks. His body slumped instantly, lifeless, the rifle slipping from his hands and clattering to the floor.
"FUCK!" screamed the driver, his head whipping around at the sound. His wide, terrified eyes took in the carnage—the slack-jawed corpse beside him, the blood-soaked interior, the thick, metallic tang that filled the air. "What the fuck are you doing? Are you crazy? Fuck, man, I knew you were batshit, but this? This?"
The lead robber casually wiped a speck of blood off his cheek with the back of his gloved hand. "Relax," he said, as if they were having a friendly chat. "He wasn't gonna make it anyway. Looked like he was about to pass out, and we can't afford dead weight."
The driver's voice cracked as he pleaded, his grip on the wheel trembling. "Dead weight? Dead fucking weight just from merely some bullets gaze?! That's what you think? Jesus Christ, man, we've been through this together! You don't need to do this! Fuck, just let me go, okay? I swear—I swear I won't say shit! All the money is yours! Just let me live!"
The lead robber chuckled darkly, his shotgun now resting lazily across his lap as he turned his icy gaze to the driver. "You know what your problem is?" he said, almost conversationally. "You talk too much."
The driver's breath hitched, and his eyes darted back to the road as the cops closed in behind them. "Please, man, come on—don't do this!"
The roar of engines and the wail of sirens filled the night as Officer Mark Alvarez leaned forward in the passenger seat of the police cruiser, gripping the dash as the car swerved to avoid debris in the road. His fingers were white-knuckled as he pulled the speaker mic from the dashboard, barking into it with practiced precision.
"Attention, suspects have crossed Lexington Avenue, heading east toward Franklin Drive. They're leaving the high-density civilian zone—repeat, moving out of populated areas. Over." His voice was steady despite the chaos unfolding in front of them, the calm tone of someone who had been in high-pressure situations far too many times.
He placed the speaker back onto its mount and immediately grabbed the handheld radio clipped to his vest. Switching channels to dispatch, Alvarez's voice remained sharp. "Dispatch, this is Unit 5-7. Suspects are approximately a quarter mile from Franklin Drive, requesting permission to deploy spike strips at the intersection of Franklin and Morton. We'll box them in if they make it past. Over."
The voice crackled back through the static. "Unit 5-7, permission granted. Units on Morton are advised to prep spike deployment. Keep pursuit tight but maintain safe distance. Over."
Alvarez nodded and glanced at his partner, Officer Dan Riley, who was hunched over the wheel, his jaw clenched as he weaved through traffic to keep their cruiser on the robbers' tail. Riley's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror for a split second, confirming the positions of the other squad cars behind them.
Ahead, the fleeing car swerved violently as the robbers tried to shake their pursuers. Two of the men leaned out of the windows, their guns spitting sparks into the night as more rounds flew toward the pursuing officers.
"Shots fired!" Alvarez shouted, ducking instinctively as a bullet ricocheted off the hood of their car with a metallic clang. He grabbed the handheld radio again, switching channels to alert the trailing units. "Be advised, suspects are engaging with firearms. Maintain defensive driving and keep tight formation. Over."
"We need air support!" Riley grunted, his voice strained. His hands were firm on the wheel as he took the sharp turns, tires screeching as the car fishtailed slightly before regaining traction. "Get the goddamn chopper in the air before these assholes hit the highway. If they do, we're screwed."
Alvarez nodded grimly, switching frequencies again. "Dispatch, this is 5-7. Suspects' vehicle is maintaining high speed and heading toward open roads. Requesting helicopter deployment for aerial tracking and perimeter coordination. Over."
"Copy that, Unit 5-7," came the static-laced reply. "Air support ETA three minutes. Maintain visual contact until then. Over."
"Roger that," Alvarez said, tossing the mic onto the dash before gripping the handle above the window to steady himself. The car jolted as Riley hit a pothole, the sound of the impact thudding through their bodies.
"Jesus, Dan, watch the road," Alvarez muttered, his tone equal parts frustration and respect for his partner's intensity.
"You try driving this close to the devil himself," Riley shot back, his eyes glued to the fleeing car. The robber;s vehicle took another hard turn, their tires screaming against the asphalt as sparks flew from their rear bumper scraping the ground.
"Suspects are pushing their vehicle hard," Alvarez observed aloud, more for himself than anyone else. "Looks like they've taken some damage. Rear axle might be compromised."
Riley nodded, glancing briefly at the dashboard's speedometer, which was hovering at 85. "Good. Let's hope it gives out before they make a run for the docks or something."
Riley grimaced, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Fucking maniacs. We're sitting ducks out here if they get lucky."
Alvarez scanned the side streets ahead. "They're heading straight for Franklin. Spike team better be ready, or this is gonna turn into a highway chase. And if they hit open roads—"
"—we'll lose them," Riley finished grimly, gripping the wheel tighter.
As they roared closer to the intersection, Alvarez switched to the local unit channel, issuing direct orders. "All units on Morton, suspects' vehicle ETA less than two minutes. Prepare spike deployment. Do not engage until visual confirmation. Over."
The radio buzzed with affirmations, and Alvarez's eyes flicked back to the fleeing car. Its movements were erratic, the driver clearly struggling to keep control as they barreled toward the next intersection.
"Stay on them," Alvarez said, gripping the handle again as Riley pushed the cruiser faster, the engine roaring in protest. "We just need to buy a little more time."