White Night

Chapter 8

Cold, damp, and in miserable, life-sucking pain, but not dead yet, Michael shifted on the truck's bench seat a measly inch. It was all the effort his body would allow.

Death would've been better than watching the cruiser approaching slowly through the dark in his rearview mirror.

Blood soaked his right side; he'd been bleeding for over an hour. Surely he should have died by now? He'd accepted it, laid his head back against the old truck's headrest and waited for everything to stop. But he was still here, freezing his balls off, barely able to move his arm, and now with a new threat emerging sixty feet behind him.

Flashing lights but no sirens, the cop car glided along silently like an alligator in the swamp of the city streets. They'd be able to read his plate in seconds, and if Hansen had sent them, then he'd never make it into custody...

His good hand already shook by the ignition. He should go now. The truck wasn't built for speed, he'd need every moment, but the cruiser was still in the middle of the street. It hadn't lined up behind him yet.

Don't run yet, Michael. Not until you're sure.

He was just off the road, barely a block after the exit—parked illegally, but that had been the least of his worries when he pulled over.

The pigs still hadn't fallen in behind him. If they were looking for him they hadn't locked on yet. Give it one more second...

The flashing lights on the cruiser shut off as it rolled along.

Too late for a surprise attack, assholes, already seen you.

No time left to wait it out. He twisted the key and the truck roared to life.

The cruiser lurched forward. It was on. Sirens screamed as the car lit up like a game show prize.

Jerking the shifter into drive, he barely got his foot to the pedal before the cruiser pulled wide alongside him. If they rammed the side of the truck, he'd be trapped between the cruiser and the concrete barrier on his right.

Go now or it's over!

He started wrenching at the steering wheel, and the cruiser accelerated wildly. They couldn't turn in time to hit him at that speed. Veering suddenly across the road, the cruiser swung across the opposite lanes and slid up to the sidewalk of the building across the street.

A dark shape scurried away from the front of the cop car as both cops jumped out and gave chase.

The cops were after someone else.

Michael's skin cooled quickly as the breath drained from his chest. Resting his head on the cold steering wheel, he felt like his bones had melted inside him.

Raised voices from across the street jarred him back to life. The cops had someone wedged between them and the guy's hands were cuffed behind him.

He remembered that feeling. Arms pulled behind you, helpless as a fish on a trawler deck while tough hands pulled you in every direction. After the first few minutes you get used to the square edges of cuffs digging into your wrists, but then you have hours of spasming, cramping shoulders while being asked the same questions over and over. You spill your guts, but if it doesn't fit with their theory, then they just keep asking you the same questions for hours. Dates, times, details, repeated relentlessly until your mind is as screwed up as your body.

Muffled sounds came from across the street, ending with the soft clang of body on metal. The guy struggled on the hood of the cruiser while one cop held him down and the other got on the radio.

Radio Cop turned and looked at his truck, mumbling into the mic. Michael looked away as a jolt of adrenaline rushed through him.

Don't look at him. Just move away slowly, casually.

More shouting erupted as the guy on the hood lurched backward into the cop holding him. Radio cop dropped his mic and they both wrestled with the guy. Michael didn't care how it ended. Lightly touching the accelerator, he sent the truck rolling quietly down the street. He turned down the first side street he came across, then another and another. Hidden now in the lottery of streets, he could finally breathe again, the old engine rumbling steadily as he sank back into his seat.

None of it made sense—a misdemeanor assault charge eight years ago and no contact with his "victim" since that day in court. He'd broken Hansen's nose and enjoyed it; even Hansen knew he deserved it and only pressed charges to keep him from smashing his face in again. He'd said as much back then.

So why would Hansen want him dead now? If it was that son of a bitch, then he owed him retaliation and at least as much pain as he'd caused him over the years.

The cops had made him realize one thing. He no longer wanted to die.