Chapter 9 - Cold Engine
The exhaust shaft was tight, choked with lint and dry roach dust, but Mark squeezed through, dragging himself out into the wet alleyway behind the motel.
He hit the asphalt hard, rolling onto his shoulder. Rain immediately washed the warm blood off his forehead—he didn't even remember getting cut.
His cruiser was three miles away. Walking meant getting caught by whoever was sweeping the highway.
At the end of the alley stood a beat-up 2004 Honda Civic, its rust-eaten muffler hanging by a wire. Inside, a kid no older than nineteen was sitting with the dome light on, counting a crumpled wad of five-dollar bills.
Mark walked up, yanked the driver's side door open, and grabbed the kid by the hoodie collar.
"Out," Mark grunted.
"Yo, what the hell man—" The kid stopped cold when he saw the blood running down Mark’s face and the Glock held dead-level with his nose.
"Out of the car. Now."
The kid stumbled out, dropping his money in the puddle. Mark slid in, hit the locks, and jammed the key into the ignition.
The engine cranked. Once. Twice. Clicked.
"No, no, no..." Mark slammed his palm against the steering wheel.
Through the rearview mirror, he saw the dark jacket walk out of the alley doorway, pistol raised.
May you like
Mark turned the key again, stomping the gas pedal to the floor. The old engine sputtered, caught, and roared into life just as a bullet blew out the Civic’s rear windshield, spraying safety glass across the back seat.
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