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BATCH 1

The only signs that the street was alive was the looming lights overhead and the once-in-a-life-time zapping of cars into oblivion. It was 4:29 a.m. and now, the turn of a sport Jaguar.

She was fast and desperate. The man on her had a gloved hand solidly on the wheel. His head and neck were shielded in a mask and his eyes almost never left the wide mirror in the car.

Tailing her were six police cars blasting into the silence and mixing the blue and red on their roof with the perfect street whites above. Benjamin had something which they wanted.

A woman a little taller than a midget and looking like she was a hundred and fifty years old was standing by the curb as Benjamin approached a mortuary. When Benjamin drew level with her, he threw his hand outside the low vehicle and waved. The woman who was tugging at a cart of green tomatoes waved back and then entered into the street immediately after the jaguar.

It started to drizzle from the sky. And the police vehicles were next.

It was either she had not seen them or she did not hear them or both. She threw her arms high up as a thunder of car horns deafened her. She was not scared or if she was it was hardly noticeable. She had the intimidating poise of a hunter up against a rabbit. She did not run off the tarmac like she wanted to save her life.

The driver of the first police van missed her by a little more than a hair’s breadth crashing into a massive signpost beyond her.

“Unto you Lord, I commend my spirit,” the old woman shouted in a cigarette-hoarse voice.

The second patrol car missed her too only brushing against the top of the tomato cart and continuing helplessly on.

Rakel, suddenly aware of the danger her life might be in, hurries to the other side with the speed of a child, her cart at the center of the tarmac.

The driver of the third patrol car screaming, screeching-cum-speeding, crashes into the cart of green tomatoes, distributing a marshy mess everywhere.

Benjamin was watching a long way off in a bush. He had pulled over and concealed his Jaguar in a street. He had seen the second Sedan move helplessly on and was more concerned about the life of the old woman than the pile of hundred dollar bills carelessly occupying the entire area of his backseat.

Now that he had seen that she was safe he stood from his crouch and hurried to his car. The police sirens were now wailing in the distance ahead.

 

The Sheriff vehicles came to an abrupt halt before a three-road-junction. There was no need moving on any longer. It was clear they had lost the Jaguar.

One of the doors, went lazily open and Reinhard Slickkenshish, Commanding Officer of Altadena Sheriff’s station jumped out. He was in his early fifties, his childish face beaming so many wry lines. He moved his sixfeet-plus slim physique into one of the roads and turned before he made up his mind on which to enter.

His subordinates were already standing at different positions between the crescent-shaped parked cars, armor in position. He turned his face from them in a bid to hide his confusion.

It was clear that he did not know what to do next.

“I don’t think we should split, sir. We should just be the hero for once, turn around and go home. Five of our men had died pursuing Sports Jaguars like this and we could not find their bodies.”

It was a younger officer that was speaking. He had half-jogged, half-raced to Slickenshish and was now standing by his side.

Ever as swift as a bee, people rarely saw a smile on Sergeant Manley Manning's face. He had always told people that bothered him that he was keeping them for his future wife and kids.