Inside the cramped, dimly lit cabin of the armored vehicle, three men dressed in MedPharma's dark gray uniforms kept their eyes fixed on the tracking monitors, the atmosphere heavy with a tension that grew with every minute that pointless chase dragged on.
One of them, the tallest of the three, still bore a swollen purple bruise around his left eye, a painful and humiliating reminder of the punch he'd taken minutes earlier.
"Damn it, now a Porsche showed up to help these tramps too," he grumbled, slamming his fist against the console in front of him. "What kind of criminal scheme are these two mixed up in to have access to a vehicle like that? That's not a car regular people from the Low Zone drive."
"I don't know, maybe they stole it," the second man suggested, without much conviction, his fingers sliding frantically over the control panel, trying to recalibrate the main cannon's aim for the third time in a row.
