The helicopter, its searchlight shattered, pulled up sharply into a steep climb to put distance between itself and the shooters.
The pilot was paralyzed with terror!
For a heartbeat, he had been certain those bullets were meant for his skull.
However...
It was beautiful.
*BOOM!*
The Maserati soared through the night sky. With a violent *thud*, it made a very intimate contact with the pavement on the far side of the Manhattan Bridge, landing on the New Jersey-bound span.
In the passenger seat, Wesley was slammed around until his head spun.
Fox had entertained the thought of simply sniping the helicopter pilot to end the pursuit.
But...
Doing so would trigger an all-out, "till death do us part" war with the NYPD.
Last year, an NYPD officer was killed, and the result was a city-wide cancellation of leave and a total lockdown. They didn't lift the alert until the suspect was literally dragged out of a toilet stall.
"Damn it."
Fox was reaching a breaking point. "How did it suddenly turn into this!"
This was supposed to be a simple, routine execution. How had it evolved into this cinematic disaster?
Wesley, clutching his bruised forehead, suddenly froze. He stared into the side mirror at a flare of white light rising from the horizon line. His pupils contracted in sheer terror. "He's following us."
Fox whipped her head around.
Behind them!
The silver Audi R8 cut through the sky like a giant bird spreading its wings. With a heavy *clash*, it landed flush against the nearly vertical bridge deck and then—as if driving on level ground—slid down the incline and hit the asphalt.
Senior Driving is truly extraordinary.
"Shit!"
Fox drew her gun, firing a rapid burst of shots at the grounded Audi R8!
But...
*BANG!*
*CLANG-CLANG!*
Countless bullets collided in mid-air, falling to the street like leaden rain.
"What?"
"Curve Bullets?"
Fox froze for a fraction of a second. She holstered her gun and slammed the pedal down, accelerating again. "How can he know the Curve Bullet?"
The Curve Bullet was the trademark skill of the Fraternity.
To put it bluntly: anyone who knew that technique was an assassin of the Fraternity. And if someone learned it and left, there was only one path for them: the grave.
Locke let out a soft chuckle.
Shocked?
Good!
I'm coming for you.
*ROAR!*
With a flick of his wrist, Locke stowed the Silver Dancer back into his inventory and placed both hands on the wheel. The engine roared as he gave chase to the Maserati, which was already trailing a few loose parts from its rough landing.
However...
Outside of Manhattan, the audience was still growing.
At least one more police helicopter was thundering toward them, rotors churning as it sped across the water from Manhattan Island. Meanwhile, the sound of sirens was becoming clearer, merging into a singular, deafening wall of noise.
"Suspects fleeing toward the Holland Tunnel!"
"Deploying units!"
"Move!"
"Lock it down!"
At the NYPD Command Center, the Commissioner's nose was practically twitching with rage. When he heard that every news reporter in New York with a helicopter was currently airborne, he nearly fainted. He had just checked into a five-star hotel where his young mistress was waiting for him.
"Damn it!" the Commissioner roared. "Notify ESU! Get them out there!"
"They've been notified, but lowering the Manhattan Bridge takes time!"
"..."
If those two cars made it through the Holland Tunnel to New Jersey, it would be Jersey's jurisdiction. The NYPD's reputation would be in shambles.
*VROOM!*
*VROOM!*
On the road, the red sports car streaked forward, the silver coupe hot on its heels.
A game of cat and mouse.
*BANG!*
*BANG!*
"FUCK!"
"Heh."
Locke steered with one hand, his other arm resting casually out the window. He could almost hear the frantic, high-pitched desperation in Fox's voice over the wind.
Just then.
Locke caught a flash in his peripheral vision. His sixth sense flared. He executed an instant drift. With a heavy *whoosh*, a blue Ford Raptor pickup truck roared past, missing his bumper by an inch.
*Cross!*
Sitting in the cockpit, Locke watched the man in the Raptor tear past him. He raised an eyebrow, his lips moving silently as he uttered the name.
The rogue assassin, Cross.
Still alive, I see.
Locke slammed the gas, ending his drift and surging back into pursuit of Fox, who had managed to pull two hundred meters ahead.
Cross expressionlessly spun his truck around and rejoined the chase.
"Central, we have a third vehicle!"
"License plate is..."
"The owner just called it in. A man held him at gunpoint and hijacked the car."
"FUCK!"
Cross had actually been hiding quite comfortably.
In fact, he was currently planning a way to contact his son—to tell Wesley that beautiful women are liars and that Fox wasn't interested in him; she was interested in his father.
But...
Before Cross could put his plan into motion, he saw the emergency news. He saw the live broadcast of his idiot son flying over the bridge with a look of pure, unadulterated terror on his face.
And so, Cross had come.
If it were just Fox in trouble, Cross wouldn't help. He might even look for an opportunity to take her out—after all, she was the "bad woman" leading his son astray.
His son's life used to be fine.
So what if he was being cheated on? To get through life, you have to expect a little "green" on your head sometimes, right?
*ROAR!*
The Raptor's power was immense.
With Cross joining the fray, the streets of New York now featured a fiery red Maserati in the lead, a silver Audi R8 close behind, and a blue Ford Raptor pickup truck clinging to their tail with aggressive performance!
"Big news."
"This is definitely the front-page headline for every paper in New York tomorrow!"
The reporters in the helicopters were reaching a collective peak of excitement. They practically hung themselves out of the choppers, shoving their camera equipment as close as possible to the "Fast and Furious" spectacle unfolding below.
At this moment.
George Stacy was racing toward the scene.
When he heard the suspects had leaped across the Manhattan Bridge, he immediately thought of the Holland Tunnel. Before NYPD dispatch could even react, he had already diverted his course, speeding toward the intercept.
In fact.
George could already see three streaks of color flickering at the end of the long stretch of road.
*BOOM!*
Locke glanced through the rearview mirror at the expressionless Cross in the Raptor behind him. He narrowed his eyes.
Son of a bitch!
You don't have the balls to take on the Fraternity head-on, but you think you can take me?
Who gave you the courage?
Locke felt the jolt as the Raptor nudged his rear bumper. His eyes turned cold. His left hand, still gripping his weapon, reached out the window.
*BANG!*
*BANG!*
*BANG!*
The Silver Dancer barked three times. Three aimed shots. The first bullet slammed into the Maserati's rear right tire. The second and third followed suit with clinical precision.
Instantly.
The Maserati's rear right tire gave up!
***
I'll post 2 bonus chapters if we hit 300 stones by Sunday.
Thanks for reading 🙏
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