The sun dipped low on the horizon, smearing fiery streaks across the industrial district's skeletal skyline. Shadows stretched over crumbling buildings, and the air reeked of rust and gasoline. Canan Kane's patrol car hummed steadily, its vibration masking the storm churning in his chest. Every breath felt like standing in its eye.
The past twenty-four hours looped relentlessly in his mind: the ambush that nearly ended him, Internal Affairs closing in, Wade's quiet threats, and the drug lords' simmering fury. None of it was coincidence. None of it could be ignored. He was still in the game, but survival felt more like a delay than a victory.
His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. The dull stretch of road mirrored his reality—a void where danger crouched, ready to pounce. The dark sedan following him wasn't just a car; it was a predator, patient and unyielding.
At the next intersection, Canan slowed. The light turned red, his grip tightening on the wheel. The sedan stayed back, savoring the hunt. When the light turned green, Canan didn't follow the road ahead but veered sharply into a narrow alley, his tires screeching as he wove past dumpsters and abandoned cars.
The sedan hesitated, unwilling to follow. By the time Canan emerged on the other side, it had vanished. He exhaled slowly, loosening his grip. But this wasn't relief—just a pause, a shift in tactics. The hunt wasn't over.
A gas station sat on the outskirts of the district, a forgotten outpost in a wasteland of urban decay. The cracked pavement gleamed faintly with oil, and the neon sign over the convenience store flickered erratically, buzzing like an insect trapped in a light fixture. Canan pulled in, parking at the farthest pump. As he stepped out, the evening air hung heavy with gasoline fumes and distant echoes of machinery. His eyes, sharp and restless, scanned the surroundings.
Near the store, a group of men loitered. Their leather jackets and tattooed hands broadcast their affiliations. Canan's gaze fixed on one of them—a wiry figure with a shaved head and sharp, darting eyes. The man leaned toward his companions, whispering something before turning his gaze toward Canan. His lips curled into a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
Canan's hand drifted toward his holster, an instinct as natural as breathing.
"Officer Kane," the wiry man called, his voice slick with mockery. "Fancy running into you."
Canan's voice was calm, neutral. "You've got the wrong guy."
The wiry man chuckled, low and sharp. "Nah, word on the street says you've been stirring up trouble. Big trouble."
The hum started again, faint and steady—a vibration deep in Canan's chest. It wasn't fear. It was clarity, a heightened awareness sharpening the world around him. The group's movements spoke louder than their words: a twitch toward a waistband, a glance at the pump shielding Canan's lower body.
He knew what was coming. He knew it a second before they moved.
"Dispatch, shots fired, officer under duress!" Canan barked into his radio, his voice slicing through the mounting tension. "Industrial district gas station. Multiple armed suspects!"
"Copy, Officer Kane," the dispatcher replied, calm and detached. "Units are en route."
Canan didn't believe her for a second. Wade would hear the call, and Wade would make sure no one came.
The wiry man reached for his jacket. Canan moved first.
His pistol came up in a smooth, practiced arc, the first shot cracking through the air. The wiry man stumbled back, clutching his shoulder, and chaos erupted. His companions scattered, weapons drawn.
The hum crescendoed, guiding Canan's every motion. He anticipated the lunge from his right, spinning to fire before the thug's weapon cleared his waistband. The man crumpled, swearing as he hit the ground.
Gunfire roared in response, bullets ricocheting off the pump and tearing into the patrol car. Canan dove behind it, glass shattering above him as he calculated his next move. The hum painted the chaos in stark clarity: the thug on the left would flank; the one on the right would fire blind to cover him.
Canan popped up, firing two quick shots to the left. The flanking thug went down with a scream. The others hesitated, giving Canan the split second he needed to sprint to the driver's seat.
He threw himself into the car, slamming the door as a bullet punched through the rear window. "Where the hell is backup?" he barked into the radio, yanking the gearshift into reverse.
"Hold position, Officer Kane," came the same disturbingly neutral voice. "Units are en route."
A bitter laugh escaped him as he floored the gas pedal, tires screeching. The patrol car shot out of the station and onto the main road.
Relief was fleeting. In the rearview mirror, a sleek black sedan roared to life, closing the distance with ruthless precision.
"Of course," Canan muttered, his grip tightening on the wheel.
The chase began.
The sedan weaved through traffic, relentless. Canan veered into side streets, using his knowledge of the district's labyrinthine alleys to his advantage. Pedestrians scattered as he cut through shortcuts, narrowly avoiding dumpsters and debris. But the sedan stayed locked on him, a shadow he couldn't shake.
As he approached a highway overpass, the sedan surged forward, its front bumper brushing his rear. The hum flared again, his senses sharpening. The sedan drifted to the right—its driver preparing for a PIT maneuver.
Canan slammed the brakes just enough to throw the sedan off-balance. It swerved, narrowly missing a guardrail, but recovered quickly.
Ahead, the highway split into two exits: one leading to the crowded commercial district, the other to an under-construction bypass. Canan took the latter, his tires screaming as he maneuvered onto the unfinished road.
Concrete barriers and scattered equipment turned the bypass into a gauntlet. Canan zigzagged through the obstacles, his pursuer struggling to keep pace. When he spotted a gap between two massive dividers, he didn't hesitate. Swerving sharply, he squeezed through the opening.
The sedan wasn't as lucky. The sound of crunching metal filled the air as it clipped a divider and ground to a halt.
Canan didn't look back.
At a derelict warehouse on the city's edge, Canan parked his car, the engine ticking as it cooled. He leaned against the hood, staring out at the shadowed streets as his thoughts coalesced into a plan.
From the trunk, he retrieved a shotgun and an old burner phone. He dialed a number, waiting as the line clicked after three rings.
"We need to talk," Canan said.
The response was inaudible, but it brought a faint, malicious smile to his lips. Satisfaction flickered in his eyes as he ended the call and dialed again—this time, Wade's number.
"Kane," Wade answered, his voice a low growl. "You've got guts calling me."
"I've got something you want," Canan replied. "The drugs from the drop. And I'm willing to make a deal."
Wade was silent for a moment. "Keep talking."
"I leave the city," Canan continued, "and the drugs are yours. No more games, no more ambushes. You call off the hit, and I disappear."
"And why the hell should I believe you?"
"You shouldn't," Canan admitted. "But you can't afford to ignore this. You need those drugs to smooth things over with the cartel, and I'm your best shot at getting them back."
Another pause. Then Wade's reply came, sharp and menacing. "Fine. Where and when?"
"Midnight. The river docks," Canan said before ending the call.
His smirk returned as he loaded the shotgun into the trunk. The cold glint in his eyes promised a reckoning.