Questions rolled in her mind like a movie reel. Chasing squad cars clogged her rearview mirror. The road ahead was somewhat out of focus. Swooshing around corners by the skin of her teeth, swerving passed Sunday drivers with no regard to safety, Natalie desperately tried to shake the cops off her trail. When she arrived at Atlantic Avenue, a dozen more squad cars had blocked off the street. “Mercedes is in sight! We’re closing in,” a cop reported on his radio.
Responding to the call was none other than the mastermind behind the chase, John Hart. “All units! All units! Kill Natalie Mercedes at all costs! I want her head in a box by morning! Out!”
Screaming pedestrians dove out of the way as Natalie drove onto the sidewalk to get around the blockade. Bullying her way through traffic, conducting a symphony of screeching tires and crashing metal from surrounding vehicles, she headed for Tillary Street. Drivers shouted out every curse word invented. Entering the Brooklyn Bridge, she narrowly cut through pockets of space within the traffic congestion. Her frustration escalated once she crossed
to Manhattan and discovered the FDR entrance ramp had been blocked off. She swerved onto the Financial District and was stopped in her tracks by a Wall Street traffic jam.
Just then, sirens blared from all directions. Three Sikorsky S-76 helicopters crossed the night air and spun overhead. On foot, cops surrounded her vehicle with weapons drawn, yelling for her to surrender. Slowly, Natalie shifted the
gear to reverse. Pretending to surrender, she gently rose her hands. As the cops drew near, she stomped on the gas pedal. Blue uniforms bounced off her car
like tennis balls as she drove through the grassy plain of Battery Park. Smoking S-marks were left on the grass and flying dirt rained down on the onlookers while bulleting toward Rector Street.
Zooming passed a bunch of red lights, Natalie spotted a Black Prius coming on her right side. Riding inside were plainclothes officers, armed with pump- action shotguns. At close range, officers hung from the windows and opened
fire. Gun shells the size of sausage links tore through her vehicle, cracking glass and leaving holes in the exterior. Natalie cut the wheel and broadsided them. Side-by-side, both cars battled to sideswipe the other off the street. One last ram the front tire of the Prius blew out. Losing control, the cops swerved onto the sidewalk and crashed through the storefront of a hardware shop. “What...is... going on?!” Natalie bawled while running through another red light.
Times Square rapidly approached. Another wall of officers, larger than the first, waited for her on 12th Avenue. Natalie slammed the brake. Nowhere else for her to turn. Spinning lights and blue uniforms closed in. Helicopters lowered toward the busy street and harsh instructions blasted from the loudspeaker:
“Step out of the car! Lay down on the ground and lock your fingers behind your
No way out. Natalie reached for her gun, ready to go down in a blaze of glory. But she would then be labeled a cop killer. And what would happen to her team in the aftermath? No. She refused to become one of them, a disgrace to
the badge. A second warning blared. No dramatic saves like in the movies. John
Hart won. She will die again without avenging Martha once.
All of a sudden, complaints hollered from various police scanners:
“Something just smashed our car!” “I see squad cars flying in the air!” “HEEEEEEELLLLLPPP!!!!”
Traffic stood still. Bystanders watched. “This is your last warning! You have ten seconds to come out or we will open fire! Ten! Nine! Eight…eight... ey-y-y-” The pilot tightened his eyes at the windshield. A large object rapidly
approached, getting bigger by the second. Spinning red and white lights. Is that a
flying squad car? “WHAT THE -”
BOOM!!!!!!!!!!! The chopper exploded on impact, lighting up the night
sky with orange, yellow and gray puffy clouds. Also, it seemed like a bright red specter wildly swirled within the explosion, shrieking at a high-pitch. Burning debris fell over the cops, smashing the tops of their vehicles. Amid the fiery spectacle, Gina Vasquez emerged onto the scene.
She swooshed next to Natalie’s window and said, “Stay down!” “YOU!” Natalie gasped. “What are you doing here?!”
“Later! Get down now!” Natalie rolled up her window and hid below the steering wheel, praying to God for this madness to end.
Gina had the lung power of an afterburner as she inhaled the burning
smoke and blew it at the surrounding cops. Cops gagged from its intense fumes. Blinded by grayness, they shot strays in every direction. Pedestrians ran in panic. Gina moved like a tornado and one-by-one attacked each cop, throwing jackhammer-like punches, whirling kicks and backbreaking slams that would make a cage-fighter cringe.
Another chopper flew over the damage and used its massive blades to blow away the smoke. Multiple weapons and a herd of beaten cops lied on the street. Before the pilot could radio for help, he heard a knock on his side window.
He squealed at seeing Gina Vasquez waving at him. With one arm, she broke through the glass and yanked the pilot out from his seat. “Who ordered this?!” Gina demanded. “I want a name!!”
Dangling over the street like a worm on a hook, the pilot naturally sang like a canary. “JOHN HART!!! He’s the one you want!! He told us to kill the private eye and we’ve been chasing her all night from Brooklyn and then we cornered here and then you showed up and that’s all I know I swear - I swear - I swear that’s all I know!!!”
“Looks like your boys up there are the only smart ones in the group.” The pilot shuddered over his shoulder as Gina pointed at the third chopper retreating, shrinking to the size of a flea. She threw him back inside the cockpit. “Now I’m going to be nice this time and let you go. For two reasons. One, you’re worthless to me. Two, you’re going to deliver a message to ol’ Johnny boy. Tell him the Angelite is here.” She then leaped off the helicopter and disappeared in the smoky mass. The pilot soiled himself.