Page 109 of Worth the Wait
Down the corridor. Through the double doors. Out into the rear yard, heart trying to punch its way out of his ribs.
Patrol cars. Empty.
Shit.No keys. No wheels. No plan.
He skidded to a halt as a car swung back into the yard, Becca behind the wheel.
Freddie sprinted for the bonnet, sliding across in one motion, and threw open the passenger door.
“Fred, what the fuck?!”
He was already in, yanking his seatbelt across his chest, and grabbed the handle above the window.
“Hospital,” he yelled. “Now.”
Becca blinked. “What? Why? Who called it in?”
“I did.” He glared at her. “Please. Nathan’s been stabbed.”
She hesitated. Conflict in her eyes. The weight of her record, of every time she’d gone to bat for him and been burned for it. He thought she’d say no. Thought she’d freeze. So he pleaded with her, eyes wide and desperate.
“Please, Becks. I don’t know if he’s even alive.”
Becca straightened in her seat, tightening her grip around the wheel. Then she hit the lights.
The sirens screamed.
Freddie braced a hand on the dash as the car lurched out of the yard, blue lights slicing through the low Worthbridge sky. They shot into the narrow lanes, Becca behind the wheel with the focused intensity of someone born for this. She was one of the best pursuit drivers in the watch. Sharp, reactive, fearless without being reckless. And as they wove through traffic, blue strobes flashing across windscreens and shopfronts, Freddie’s own training kicked in.
He gritted his teeth and locked in.
“Take the coastal route,” he barked. “South loop’s gridlocked this time of night. We’ll get a straight run along the cliffs.”
“Copy. Which entrance?”
“A&E main. Emergency bay.”
Becca clipped a junction tight, tyres spitting up spray as they skidded through the turn. A van honked as they tore past, pointless noise against the wall of sirens screaming their arrival.
Freddie flicked his gaze ahead, already mapping the route. “Roundabout ahead. Skip it. Filter lane right, through the bus gate. I’ll call it in.”
“Got it. Keep navvying.”
“Camden Street coming up. Stay inside lane. Outer track bottlenecks past the kebab shop.”
Becca swung in, the patrol car flying through the tight bend with inches to spare. A pair of cyclists flinched against the railings, high-vis jackets blurring in the cobalt flash.
“White van, twelve o’clock,” Freddie warned, eyes locked on the road ahead. “No brake lights. Might drift—”
“Already on it,” Becca cut in, swerving cleanly across the centre line and roaring past, tyres hugging the kerb before cutting back.
Freddie tightened his grip on the handle. “You’re mental.”
“You’re the one who jumped my bonnet.”
“Yeah, well, don’t make me regret it.”
“Then keep calling it.”
