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A black car causes deadly accidents involving police officers. A deputy seeks to stop the car, but soon questions what he is chasing.
A mysterious man comes forward with information about the car. The information and the man himself signal a clear warning that police best proceed with extreme caution.
He had broad, vengeful hands. When they were clenched they were like clubs at the end of thick, muscular arms.
His right hand turned the ignition key.
The seven hundred horsepower engine coughed. In the next second it exploded to life. A thunderous volley of red-orange flame shot from the chrome exhaust pipes, which stuck upward through eight small holes in the slanted hood.
The black car shook violently, but to the driver it felt as smooth and soothing as a cat’s contented purr. A combat-boot-clad foot gunned the throttle pedal. The exhaust flames rose a foot in length.
A long, thick finger flicked on a toggle switch mounted within the stainless steel dash. Dash lights came on and glowed an eye-easy orange radiance. The tachometer needle vibrated around the 900-RPM mark. The foot gunned the throttle again. The tack needle bounded up to 8000 RPM.
A lopsided smile parted his lips.
Another finger pushed in a glowing red button within the dash. An electric garage door opener responded, reeling in its cable, opening a fiberglass three-section door.
The smile broadened.
He reached up and pulled down the night-vision goggles. A firm hand gripped the transmission shifter. A firmly planted foot pushed down the clutch pedal. He shifted the five-speed transmission into first-gear and released the clutch. The black car bolted from the garage and streaked down the gravel driveway.
There was a slight dip at the end of the driveway. It was no more than a hardly noticed bump as the car touched the blacktop roadway. The throttle pedal was jammed to the floor. Smoke from the wide rear tires mixed with the sounds of shrieks, squeals and thunderous belching of exhaust. Within seconds the car disappeared into the late night darkness.
~ * ~
The night air was warm, in sharp contrast to the previous night. The moon shone brightly. It was as a night should be, calm, peaceful.
Along the gravel shoulder of a two-lane road, two deputies sat in a parked police car. They sat in silence. They had never worked together. They had never been together. Strangers they were within the same department, brought together by the events of the previous night.
One of the deputies was a seasoned veteran officer. He was the late-shift road sergeant. Charlie Johnson by name, CJ as those he worked with called him, he was a brawny, gruff individual who didn’t partake in pointless conversation. He lacked in social graces, and often stayed at home or worked overtime while his wife went visiting with her lady friends. Most knew he was anti-social. His young partner for the night was among a few who didn’t know as much.
Ray O’Brien was a young reserve deputy. By day he went to Police Science School. He was in his second year and was, by grade average, the top student in his class. It was his goal to make law enforcement his life career. Countless times he rode with other deputies. Great experience he believed. In all the other cases found those deputies to be friendly, talkative, and to him, most importantly, informative. He learned, as he had said to an unknown number of friends, more by riding along with the deputies than by all that was taught in class.
He was riding with a sergeant tonight. When he first learned that he’d ride with a sergeant he was pleased, thinking he’d discover a great deal about the inner workings of the department. The only thing O’Brien had learned thus far that night was how to be quiet. Johnson’s stillness was unnerving.
O’Brien glanced at his watch. It was two in the morning. Bar traffic would begin soon. Thank God, he thought. Perhaps then something interesting will happen.
Thus far the night had been boring, and that, in O’Brien’s opinion, was being kind to the fact. They’d been parked along the road for what seemed like an eternity. In that time, only a handful of cars, eight at best, had passed the police car. Each was clocked by the radar unit set upon the dash of the car pointed forward.
Joel Goulet lives in Wausau, Wisconsin. Single, he has three sisters and a brother. A graduate of Wausau East High School, he enjoys bowling, taking walks with his dog, watching movies, and most of all he enjoys writing.
Book Publisher: Wings ePress
No. of Pages: 285
Paper Weight (lb): 12.0
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