Election Day: A Prosecution Force Thriller (The Prosecution Force Thrillers Book 3) by Logan Ryles

Author:Logan Ryles [Ryles, Logan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-09-23T16:00:00+00:00

48

Reed found the line of parked cars right where he left it, but the last car in line—the one parked in reverse, giving it an easy exit away from the wrecked bottle truck—was gone. He pictured the moment he’d swerved around it, trying to remember the make and model. It was silver. A Honda? A Toyota? Something innocuous like that. Something anybody could see and everybody would miss.

No, it was a Ford. Reed remembered the open black grill and the long nose. A Ford Fusion, late model. He stomped the accelerator and swerved to the left, catching a glimpse down the long line of cars gathered in front of him. The oncoming headlights flashed in his face, and another horn blared.

But Reed saw the Fusion turn right at the next intersection, catching Chestnut Street. He gunned the motor, hopping the curb and laying on his horn. Pedestrians screamed and broke in waves as he drove onto the wide sidewalk and hit the gas.

A woman in heels jumped aside and hurled her Starbucks at him. The coffee exploded over the windshield, and he hit the wipers reflexively, still blaring the horn.

The Porsche bounced over the curb again, and he jerked it right onto Chestnut. Ahead he saw the Ford stopped at a traffic light. The Porsche’s wipers swept across the windshield again, and for a split second, Reed thought he saw the car’s driver look over his shoulder. Then the brake lights died, and the tires screamed. The silver vehicle shot into the intersection, narrowly missing a passing Honda, and raced forward.

Reed dropped into third and hit the gas. The Porsche blazed through the intersection amid a blare of horns. Ahead of him, the Ford reached the next stoplight and hung a hard right. Reed followed only fifty yards behind and closing. The Porsche swung wide into the intersection and grazed another car, then the back wheels caught and launched him forward.

Street signs advertised North Rush Street. It was aptly named. Reed laid the hammer down, and the tachometer bounded to redline as the digital readout next to it flashed through the fifties and back toward seventy miles per hour. The Ford was still a full intersection ahead now, weaving through traffic and outpacing the Porsche by sheer luck. Each time Reed closed ground, another car pulled in front of him, or he was forced to slow as he ran up behind a city bus. At times he closed on the Ford, once so close he saw the guy’s head bobbing over the top of his seat. Reed reached for the Glock, now sliding around in the passenger footwell, before being forced to grab the shifter again and pull back into neutral, swerving around an oncoming bread truck.

Reed cut the wheel and slid around the nose of the truck, ignoring the blast of the larger vehicle’s horn. Then he caught second gear as the Ford yanked a left at the next intersection—Division Street.

Reed reached the stoplight and raced through on yellow.

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