A soft breeze carried a scent that would change the world; the scent of petroleum and nitrous. Sheriff Alexander Durza sat in the shadows, legs straddled across his favorite bike. The anticipation was killing him. He chewed eagerly on his crimson mustache, tasting the stale beer consumed hours ago. An engine blared deeper in the woods lighting Durza's eyes ablaze. The sheriffs' gaze alone could silence his inferiors but a stiff bark was added for good measure. The biker gang he had been partnered with infuriated him. They were imbeciles, down to their embroidered jackets sporting the nickname "The Urgals" to the corny plastic horns taped to their helmets. The chiefs' gaze alone could silence his inferiors and a stiff bark was added for good measure. But as the Chief once told him; it takes a criminal, or many, to catch one.
A flash of white light made Durza's spine stiffen. The moment of his anticipation had come. On the road ahead three vehicles approached. One in the middle flanked by two guards like a flock of geese. It was time. Alex kicked started his Harley and prepared for acceleration. Light darted off of Durza's polished gas tank, alerting the oncoming racers to the law enforcements presence. In response all three vehicles sped forward. Profanity flew through the policeman's lips with restless abandon. He removed the pistol from his belt aiming haphazardly at the oncoming tires. The two sidecars were clear hits both spinning uncontrolled before joining together in a ditch. The lead car however, was what Durza wanted. His bike peeled out seconds after his prize passed him leaving nothing but a cloud of dirt and grime. The Sherriff risked everything, speeding to an almost certain death, but the car ahead was faster. He was gaining ground, shifting through the gears with a light foot, and swiftly, violently the car turned sliding into a private driveway. Speeding into the depths of residential farmland. A warrant would be needed for the law to follow.
Durza screamed in frustration as he panicked trying to stop his own momentum. It was over a quarter mile before Sheriff Durza could turn completely around and the time lost was fatal. The car was gone. A blue flash of the underbody lights could just be glimpsed before the motor was quieted and Durza's prize was swallowed up by the night. The police mans anger could not be curbed. He had loaded six bullets into his pistol, all finding refuge in the Urgals heads. They never had the sense to start their pitiful machines. The deaths, of course, would be "accidents" perpetrated by those nefarious street bandits. Durza lit one of his flares and threw it deeply into the wood. The orange half light reflected of a young womans face. Her dark gaze met Durza's as a pleasant surprise. If he could not have his car, he would have his driver.