Page 3 of Captured Heart

Bowman and Smith leap out, rolling across the pavement and disappearing into the shadows. The rookies freeze, too scared to move, and I curse under my breath.

The sirens are closer now, red and blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror. My knuckles turn white as I grip the wheel tighter. I floor the gas, the engine roaring under the strain. Myeyes dart between the road ahead and the mirror, calculating every move, every turn.

I weave through traffic, dodging cars with barely an inch to spare. Horns blare, tires screech, but I don’t flinch. There’s no time for hesitation, no room for error. The van rattles as I take a sharp left, the weight shifting dangerously, threatening to tip over.

The rookie in the passenger seat lets out a panicked yelp, his hand gripping the door handle so tight it might start bleeding. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouts.

“Shut up!” I snap, my eyes locked on the road.

Behind me, the sirens wail louder, closing the gap. A second cop car joins the chase, its headlights cutting through the darkness. I zip through an intersection, ignoring the red light. Cars screech to a halt, narrowly avoiding a collision as I barrel through.

The rookie in the back tumbles against the side of the van as I make another reckless turn. “They’re gaining on us!”

“I know! Now, shut the fuck up and let me drive.”

I spot a narrow alley up ahead and immediately take the sharp turn. The van scrapes against the brick walls on either side, sparks flying as the side mirror shatters. The alley is tight, too tight for the police cruisers. For a brief moment, the sirens fade, and I think I’ve lost them.

But as I burst out onto another street, a third cruiser appears from the right, its siren high-pitched and piercing through the night.

“Shit!” I slam the brakes just enough to avoid smashing into it before jerking the wheel to the left. The van fishtails, the tires barely gripping the pavement as I regain control.

The rookie beside me is pale, his breaths coming in short gasps. “We’re not gonna make it,” he mutters.

“We’ll make it,” I grit out through clenched teeth, though even I’m starting to doubt it.

The highway entrance is right in front of me, a chance to put more distance between us. I merge onto the ramp, the van roaring as I push the engine to its limits. The cityscape gives way to open road, but the flashing lights remain in the mirror. These guys are fucking relentless.

Another cruiser cuts onto the highway from an on-ramp ahead, boxing me in. My pulse pounds in my ears as I veer onto the shoulder, kicking up gravel and debris. The van jolts violently, and I wrestle with the wheel to keep it steady.

“Take the next exit!” the rookie shouts.

“No!” I shout back, my mind racing through every possible escape route. An exit means slowing down, and slowing down means getting caught.

The highway stretches out ahead, but there’s no escape in sight. Another cruiser closes in, its driver skilled and unyielding.

And then I see it. A barricade up ahead, a wall of police cruisers blocking the road. My heart sinks as I realize there’s no way through.

“Hold on!” I slam the brakes and swerve to the left. The van skids out of control, hitting the barrier, the impact jarring every bone in my body.

We come to a grinding halt, smoke billowing from the crumpled hood. My chest heaves as I struggle to catch my breath, the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline filling my nostrils.

The sirens stop, replaced by the sound of car doors slamming and boots hitting the pavement. A shadow looms outside the driver’s window, and I look up to see Detective Collins smirking at me, his badge glinting under the streetlights. Man, I hate the sight of this guy.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, tapping on the glass with two fingers. “Mister Turner. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

Collins isn’t just some beat cop. He’s a bulldog. For over a year, he’s been sniffing around Victor’s operations, desperate to find a crack in the armor. He’s the type who doesn’t let go once he sinks his teeth in, and unfortunately for me, I’ve been in his crosshairs for months.

The last time he took me into custody, it was all smoke and mirrors. A knock at my door in the middle of the night, two officers dragging me to the station. Collins thought he could intimidate me, scare me into talking. “Give me something on Victor,” he’d said, leaning across the table, his coffee-stained breath invading my space. “A name. A date. Anything.”

I gave him nothing. Not a word, not a flicker of expression. He tried everything—good cop, bad cop, hell, even sympathetic cop. But I sat there, stone-faced, knowing the walls probably had ears and Victor would hear every damn thing. Eventually, they had to let me go. Insufficient evidence.

It worked out well for me. I proved my loyalty and earned Victor’s trust. I got a promotion and a new ID carrying the same fake name I gave to the cops. Didn’t work out so well for Collins, though. Even when I left the station that night, I could see the frustration simmering behind his eyes. The kind that eats at a man and keeps him up at night.

And now, here we are. No more games. No more second chances. I’m caught red-handed, the getaway van mangled against the barrier, stolen goods scattered in the back. Collins doesn’t even try to hide his satisfaction as he opens the door.

“Out,” he barks, grabbing my arm and hauling me onto the asphalt. His grip is iron, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

“Don’t you have anything better to do on a Saturday night, Collins?” I mutter, shaking his hand off my arm as I stand. “It honestly seems like making my life miserable is the only hobby you have.”

---