The Chase Begins
The Chase Begins
Peter’s scream tore through the night as Addicus’s car sped off, Sharon trapped inside. “Sharon, no!” He lunged from behind the bullet-riddled car, but Chris yanked him down as Addicus’s six remaining men unleashed a barrage. Bullets pinged off the vehicle, their only shield, the mansion’s lot a neon-lit warzone reeking of gunpowder and blood.
“He’s getting away!” Peter shouted, desperation clawing at him. “We have to stop him!”
“Survive first,” Chris snapped, ducking a shot. “They’re not letting up.”
The gunfire was relentless, Addicus’s men closing in. Jinx staggered up, blood trickling from her temple, and opened fire with her SMG from behind the enemy line. The goons spun toward her, and she dove behind a tree, bark splintering under their bullets. Peter and Chris seized the moment, popping up to return fire, their silenced pistols cracking in the chaos.
The battle raged, a deadly dance under flickering estate lights. Jinx’s precision dropped two men, their bodies crumpling in the grass. Peter’s last bullet found a thug’s chest, while Chris’s final shot took another’s head. Jinx finished the rest, her SMG spitting death until silence fell, the yard strewn with corpses, the air heavy with smoke and copper.
Jinx stood, wiping blood from her brow. Chris approached, surprising her with a hug.
“What’s this?” she asked, stiffening—she couldn’t recall the last embrace.
“For saving us,” Chris said. “Thought you’d ditched us.”
“Considered it,” Jinx teased, tapping his cheek. “But you’re growing on me, One-eye.”
“Thanks, Jinx,” Peter cut in, scanning the lot. “But we failed. Addicus has Sharon. We need to move.” Every car was wrecked—blown out, riddled with holes, tires flat.
“Dead,” Peter growled, kicking a fender.
“My bike’s not,” Jinx said, tossing him the keys. “Back of the house. Go get her. Chris and I’ll find a working ride and follow.”
Peter nodded, sprinting off. He found the motorcycle, its chrome glinting under a floodlight. He swung on, the engine roaring to life, and tore down the coastal road after Addicus’s taillights, the wind sharp with salt and diesel. Hold on, Sharon, he thought, twisting the throttle, neon signs blurring past—a diner’s Open sign, a jukebox spilling Sweet Dreams into the night.
Chris and Jinx scoured the lot, finding a sleek truck in Addicus’s garage, its black paint gleaming, a prototype not yet on the market. “Now this is a ride,” Chris said, awestruck.
“Flirt later,” Jinx snapped, eyebrow raised. “Drive.”
Chris slid into the driver’s seat, keys in the dash, but hesitated, fumbling with the high-tech controls. “I… don’t know how to drive this.”
“Are you serious?” Jinx shoved him aside, taking the wheel. Chris scrambled to the passenger seat as she gunned the engine, tires screeching out of the garage, following Peter’s trail.
Peter roared along the coast, the ocean a dark void to his left, his mind on Sharon. Addicus’s cruelty haunted him—her bruises, her shame. He prayed he’d reach her before the monster acted. The bike’s rumble was his heartbeat, the road a lifeline to his wife. A truck loomed ahead, lumber stacked high, and Peter’s gut twisted—Addicus’s car was swerving wildly, Sharon fighting back. She’s alive, he thought, but the car’s erratic path spelled danger.
Addicus sped through Denver’s countryside, Sharon unconscious in the back, his mind a storm. He’d meant to kill her at the mansion, but now he aimed for his private airstrip, to flee the country with her. Why? He didn’t know—instinct drove him, planning could wait. The car’s cassette player hissed static, a half-eaten Duran Duran tape stuck in the deck.
Sharon stirred, eyes fluttering open. Realizing her predicament, she lunged, wrapping her arms around Addicus’s neck from behind, strangling him. “Get off!” he roared, grappling her grip while swerving, headlights slicing through the dark.
“Let go, or we crash!” he shouted.
“I’d rather die than go with you,” she hissed, tightening her hold.
Peter closed in, the motorcycle screaming. He saw the car’s wild swerves, Sharon’s defiance risking everything. Ahead, the lumber truck loomed, its taillights glaring. Addicus’s car was on a collision course, and Peter’s heart sank.
“No!” he yelled, pushing the bike to its limit, desperate to intervene.
Addicus spotted the truck and jerked the wheel, dodging the crash but losing control. The car veered off the road, tumbling down a forested slope, smashing through trees, glass shattering, metal crumpling. Peter skidded to a stop at the edge, watching in horror as the car vanished into the dark, its descent a cacophony of destruction.
He dismounted, sliding down the slope, branches clawing at his leather jacket. The car’s wreckage lay ahead, upside down, smoke rising. Peter’s hope flickered—Sharon had to be alive.