Alex said. I can handle that. The gun in his jacket seemed to bulge at this thought, agreeing.
Alex followed the car for ten minutes, only passing two other cars during that time. They were heading to the industrial side of town, where there were factories, warehouses, and rundown apartment complexes. As he realized this, Alex wondered if this wasn’t deliberate. He knew that there was an exit to the interstate further down this way, but if the men in the car were looking for a quick escape from the crime they had committed, this was not the way to go.
As the twelfth minute of the eventless chase passed, Alex saw his window of opportunity. He was still two hundred yards behind the car and they had now started to catch the same sequence in the traffic lights: when Marco caught a green, so did Alex. They had caught three in a row, but now a red one shone bright in the dark like an evil dragon’s eye.
Alex swerved over into the second lane, making as if he were going to take a right turn rather than drive straight ahead. He pulled slowly to a stop, sidling up beside the small black car. Before he came side to side with it, he reached into his jacket and removed the Glock.
He pulled to a complete stop, his wheel coming to rest perfectly aligned with the front of the black car. Right away, he looked to his left and saw the man that was sitting in the passenger seat. It was indeed Marco O’Brien. Marco was looking directly at him, perhaps a bit alarmed at the sound of a motorcycle’s engine so soon after having shot the leader of a feared motorcycle club.
Marco’s eyes grew wide and he fumbled with something in his lap—his gun, Alex assumed. Alex didn’t give him the chance. He pulled off two shots, causing the passenger window to explode. He could hear Marco screaming inside, yelling at the driver.
“Go!”
The driver obeyed, the tires on the black car squealing a bit as he rocketed through the red light and to the open road beyond. Alex placed the Glock under his left leg, trapping it between his leg and the seat. It was warm from where it had just spent two rounds.
Alex kicked the bike into gear, giving chase. He kept his head down as low as possible, certain that Marco would start popping off shots as soon as they established a good lead. Sure enough, the first shot came within ten seconds, the bullet missing wide right and pinging off of the road.
Alex brought the Glock up and fired back. He heard the metallic sound of his round tearing into the back of the car. He fired one more time, bringing the aim up a bit, and fired at the back glass. It splintered, but did not break.
He took careful aim once more—hard as hell to do while driving his bike at sixty miles per hour—but never got the chance to take the shot. Unexpectedly, the car took a harsh right turn. It struck and jumped a small concrete divider that separated a warehouse parking lot from the street. Alex knew that hitting the divider with his bike would be disastrous, so he had nothing to do other than speed ahead, looking for the entrance to the lot.
It came into view ten seconds later. Alex turned a hard right into the lot and sped in the direction he had seen the black car go. There were a few cars in the lot, but none with the passenger window blown out. The warehouse loomed ahead, offering a churning sound of machinery to the night. A few sparse overhead lamps shone down, but the light they cast was weak.
Alex made his way quickly to the edge of the lot where a small loading road wound around to the back of the building. It was the only place the car could have gone. He slowed his speed and crept down the road, finding that it emptied out behind the building where several loading trucks and empty pallets lay scattered along the side of the building.
Had it not been for the puttering of his bike’s engine, he would have heard the car revving up behind much sooner.
As it was, he heard
Alex followed the car for ten minutes, only passing two other cars during that time. They were heading to the industrial side of town, where there were factories, warehouses, and rundown apartment complexes. As he realized this, Alex wondered if this wasn’t deliberate. He knew that there was an exit to the interstate further down this way, but if the men in the car were looking for a quick escape from the crime they had committed, this was not the way to go.
As the twelfth minute of the eventless chase passed, Alex saw his window of opportunity. He was still two hundred yards behind the car and they had now started to catch the same sequence in the traffic lights: when Marco caught a green, so did Alex. They had caught three in a row, but now a red one shone bright in the dark like an evil dragon’s eye.
Alex swerved over into the second lane, making as if he were going to take a right turn rather than drive straight ahead. He pulled slowly to a stop, sidling up beside the small black car. Before he came side to side with it, he reached into his jacket and removed the Glock.
He pulled to a complete stop, his wheel coming to rest perfectly aligned with the front of the black car. Right away, he looked to his left and saw the man that was sitting in the passenger seat. It was indeed Marco O’Brien. Marco was looking directly at him, perhaps a bit alarmed at the sound of a motorcycle’s engine so soon after having shot the leader of a feared motorcycle club.
Marco’s eyes grew wide and he fumbled with something in his lap—his gun, Alex assumed. Alex didn’t give him the chance. He pulled off two shots, causing the passenger window to explode. He could hear Marco screaming inside, yelling at the driver.
“Go!”
The driver obeyed, the tires on the black car squealing a bit as he rocketed through the red light and to the open road beyond. Alex placed the Glock under his left leg, trapping it between his leg and the seat. It was warm from where it had just spent two rounds.
Alex kicked the bike into gear, giving chase. He kept his head down as low as possible, certain that Marco would start popping off shots as soon as they established a good lead. Sure enough, the first shot came within ten seconds, the bullet missing wide right and pinging off of the road.
Alex brought the Glock up and fired back. He heard the metallic sound of his round tearing into the back of the car. He fired one more time, bringing the aim up a bit, and fired at the back glass. It splintered, but did not break.
He took careful aim once more—hard as hell to do while driving his bike at sixty miles per hour—but never got the chance to take the shot. Unexpectedly, the car took a harsh right turn. It struck and jumped a small concrete divider that separated a warehouse parking lot from the street. Alex knew that hitting the divider with his bike would be disastrous, so he had nothing to do other than speed ahead, looking for the entrance to the lot.
It came into view ten seconds later. Alex turned a hard right into the lot and sped in the direction he had seen the black car go. There were a few cars in the lot, but none with the passenger window blown out. The warehouse loomed ahead, offering a churning sound of machinery to the night. A few sparse overhead lamps shone down, but the light they cast was weak.
Alex made his way quickly to the edge of the lot where a small loading road wound around to the back of the building. It was the only place the car could have gone. He slowed his speed and crept down the road, finding that it emptied out behind the building where several loading trucks and empty pallets lay scattered along the side of the building.
Had it not been for the puttering of his bike’s engine, he would have heard the car revving up behind much sooner.
As it was, he heard
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