Chapter two — The Chase

  The MR2’s tires spun, smoke curling as Alex shot down the side street.

  In his rearview, the first flash of red and blue burst through the crowd. Two Dodge Challengers, matte black and mean-looking, ripped after him — pure muscle, engines snarling through the city like thunder.

  He didn’t even think about the prize money. Not tonight. He’d get it later — if he made it out.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, clutching the wheel tighter.

  The MR2 darted through a narrow intersection, clipping close to a parked van. The Challengers barreled through seconds later, heavy and brutal, their tires screaming across the asphalt.

  Alex threw the car into a sharp right, the rear sliding out before catching grip again. The turbo hissed — a snake’s breath — as he hit the gas and tore through an alleyway lined with dumpsters and broken glass.

  The cops followed, their power echoing off the brick walls like explosions. They had horsepower. He had control.

  A trash can clipped his side mirror — clank! — sparks flying. He gritted his teeth. “Come on, come on…”

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He knew these streets. Every shortcut, every blind corner. His dad’s garage wasn’t far — but bringing the heat there? No chance. He’d lose them first.

  He downshifted, tires screeching as he sliced through another alley, jumping a curb and cutting between two abandoned delivery trucks. The MR2’s suspension groaned but held.

  Behind him, one of the Challengers tried the same move — too fast, too wide.

  Alex glanced in the mirror just in time to see it.

  The heavy car clipped the corner of a truck — BANG! — metal folding like paper. Sparks erupted as it spun out, smashing into a light pole.

  The other cruiser fishtailed around the wreck, still on him but slower now, the driver trying to handle all that weight in tight space.

  Alex grinned. “You don’t bring muscle to a dance floor.”

  He kicked the MR2 sideways around another corner, a perfect drift, neon reflections sliding across his windshield. He hit the next straight — a service road parallel to the freeway — and opened it up.

  The turbo screamed. The city blurred.

  The Challenger tried to muscle through one last alley to cut him off — but the driver misjudged the width. The car clipped a dumpster, the front end exploding into sparks and smoke.

  Alex didn’t wait to see the aftermath. He shot through an open gate, down a ramp, and out onto a quiet street lined with warehouses.

  Silence again. Only his engine’s low hum and the thump of his heart.

  He slowed finally, coasting past the riverbed, breath shaky. The MR2 ticked softly as it cooled.

  He parked under a bridge, the city lights glowing faintly through the smog.

  Hands on the wheel, he let out a long breath.

  “Close one…” he whispered.

  The night was still alive above him — sirens somewhere far away, people shouting, engines revving. But Alex was a ghost now, swallowed by the maze of LA’s backstreets.

  Tomorrow, he’d collect his winnings.

  Tonight, he’d make sure the MR2 was ready for the next run.