Deckard

20.

Deckard was sick to shít of Hobbs. 

Firstly, the man had made him throw him up the length of the DSS field office in L.A. 

Secondly, because he was a self-righteous dirty cop, he made him endure the misery of being stuck in a cell with his beautiful wife on the other side of the cold, ominous wall. 

Thirdly, he put both Megan and himself through hell on the job in New York. 

He promised himself; Megan swore to herself, that they would never get involved with the scooby-doo gang again. No matter the deal. The consequences were too catastrophic. Megan was still recovering; years later, she still suffered from her life-threatening injuries. 

And yet, here he was. Driving his McLaren 720S that Megan had gifted him for his birthday a few weeks ago, through the hectic streets on London. Usually, every road was gridlocked with cars, and it would take hours to move through the streets. But today, was different. 

Today he was gliding through the dirty streets with ease. The gear shifts fluid as he tapped the trigger behind the wheel effortlessly. The tyres were squealing under the pressure as he roared the finely tuned engine. Swerving aesthetically between the large double-deckers. The people stopping and staring as the sleek car raced over the lanes and the motorbikes close on its tail were something many would only get to see in movies. Even with Hattie sat beside him, he would much rather his wife be the woman beside him as they drifted through the openings in the traffic. 

And he most certainly didn't want the giant beefcake to be in his car either. 

His mood had become even sour than he thought possible when he had seen Hobbs with his sister's legs wrapped around his head as they carried out some weird fetish back at CIA base. In some twisted way, it reminded him of when he and Megan used to butt heads; they still did, but at least they could keep it at home now. He shivered at the thought of the brick wall with his sister like that. Made bile rise in his throat. 

Megan was leaving for Moscow, having just dropped her off at Heathrow Airport before the CIA had cornered him. Throwing him into this load of bulls crap where he needed to get his little sister out of a sticky situation... again. 

He was furious when his tyres had been shot out and annoyed at the fact that this lavish car was ruined. But, he also had to hide his fear that he knew Hattie could probably read on him beneath all the anger and frustration. Because he was petrified of what Megan would do to him once she found out about the car. He knew, oh hell he knew, that she'd make him suffer. 

The smirk plastered on his sisters face, despite the gut-wrenching situation, made him aware of the fact that she knew too, just how much shít he was in. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. He had about a week to butter his wife up before she came home to the wreckage. She loved that car more than he did. She loved that car more than him. 

"Gotta lose the car," he sadly admitted. The flashy car would only attract more unwanted attention when they were trying to disappear. Something he excelled at. The shadows had kept himself and Megan safe for years. It was when they moved into the limelight that the shít seemed to hit the fan, big time. 

He was proved right when he rounded the corner and plastered across every advertising board was Hobbs and his own face. His stomach dropping and his usually controlled face forming one of horror. Megan would definitely kill him now. She'll have him hung and drawn the second she sets her mesmerising eyes on him. 

"Looking a little peaky there, buttercup," Hobbs taunted as he looked around the large clearing of bustling people who were moving on their merry way. Disregarding the three figures stood in the shadows, "It's not the first time you've been on the wanted poster. It's just a tactic to flush us out."