"We're here, Chuck."
- and his eyes came back open.
He was sitting in the shotgun seat of a Ford Windstar, on a street that passed beneath a large skyscraper.
"Are you ready?" Sarah asked, looking at him with concern.
He nodded. "It's go time."
She leaned across the center console and kissed him. "Be careful, okay?"
"Okay," he said, and opened the door of the van.
Chuck quickly jogged off the street into the parking garage – and there she was.
Eleanor. The 1967 Shelby Mustang GT 500. She had eluded him so many times, but not this time.
"We're gonna have a nice, smooth ride, right girl?" he asked as she approached.
He could swear she was looking back at him, the elongated brake lights like narrowed eyes. He lovingly ran a hand along the Mustang's side as he approached the driver's door. Reaching into his leather jacket, Chuck pulled a door jimmy out of his pocket.
Gently sliding it into the door, he popped the lock up, and opened the door. Settling into the driver's seat, he reached under the steering column. He carefully popped out the ignition lock, and inserting a narrow flathead screwdriver, turned the ignition cylinder.
The Mustang's 289 cubic inches of V-8 engine roared to life, echoing off the walls of the parking garage – quieter than usual at 6:55 on a Friday morning.
Chuck carefully backed the Mustang out of its parking spot, and then shifted her into first, squealing the tires a little bit as he pulled forward. He turned right out of the driveway onto the street –
Just as a black BMW M3 turned left toward him a block away, Detective Casey driving and Detective Awesome riding shotgun.
"Shit," Chuck breathed as the police lights on the M3 went on. He cranked the wheel over hard to the left and floored it.
In the M3, Casey was yelling at Chuck. "Easy way or the hard way, Chuck! Easy way or the hard way!"
He pressed the M3's accelerator to the floor to pursue the Mustang – but had to stand on his brakes just as fast, as Sarah Walker pulled out in front of him in her Windstar. The M3 came to a stop just inches from its side.
"I think he's going with the hard way," Awesome intoned.
Casey backed the M3 up just far enough, and then put it back into drive, whipping around the end of the Windstar. "Stupid bitch," he growled as he sped past Sarah.
Chuck flew out onto Ocean Boulevard, cranking his wheel hard right. The Mustang fishtailed as he shifted gears, the raw torque producing a little more power than the car could handle. He took another hard right onto Atlantic, Casey and Awesome hard on his tail in the M3.
When they got a little too close behind him, Chuck said, "Yeah, let's see what you think of this," and took another hard right onto Alta Way – blowing right through a "Do Not Enter" sign.
Casey followed him. "That sign said 'Do not enter," Awesome pointed out anxiously.
"Keep your shorts on," Casey grumbled.
"This is not awesome," Awesome muttered. Picking up the radio, he said, "All units, this is One-Baker-Eleven… we are in pursuit of a 1967 Ford Mustang, grey, eastbound on Alta Way… correction, we are now northbound on Lime."
The Mustang pulled around into northbound traffic. Chuck was looking for a way to escape the M3 on his tail, and so he took a hard right down an alley. He was probably going fifty-five when the garbage truck pulled out in front of him.
Chuck stood on the Mustang's brake and clutch simultaneously, sliding to a stop bare inches from the big Peterbilt front-loader. Dropping the Mustang into reverse, he backed up. Behind him, he could see the M3 whip around into the alley.
"Oh, you do NOT want to play with me, Chuck!" Casey shouted as the Mustang grew larger and larger in his windshield. When the Mustang was maybe two seconds from impacting the M3's front end, Chuck whipped the wheel to the left, causing the rear end of the Mustang to drift around to the left, entering an underground parking area.
Chuck was staring anxiously out the back window as he approached Alamitos Avenue. He saw a brief break in traffic, and gunned the engine. The Mustang flew out into southbound traffic, nose to nose with a cement truck.
"Whoa!" Awesome shouted as Casey stomped on the M3's brakes. That gave the Mustang a brief time advantage. Chuck accelerated away from the truck, and then stood on the brakes. The driver of the cement truck did the same, and as it slid to a stop, Chuck put the Mustang back in first and pulled away.
Driving northbound on Alamitos Avenue, Chuck closed his eyes briefly. Come on, Intersect, he thought. Tell me where to go.
And there it was. He just had to get there first.
That wasn't going to be easy, he discovered as a Long Beach police officer pulled up next to him and forced him to take a hard left onto Fifth Street. Chuck flew down the back street, the police officer behind him, and watched anxiously as he approached Atlantic Avenue.
There it was – another break in traffic. He gunned the Mustang's engine, and shot between a Suburban and a Mercedes going opposite directions on Atlantic, flying to the other side of the street.
The police officer wasn't so lucky. As his cruiser pulled out onto Atlantic, an LA County Metro bus t-boned him, pushing his car fifty feet down the road.
Casey pulled out into Atlantic Avenue in the M3, sighed, and came to a stop. Opening the door and getting out, he heard Awesome pick up the radio and say, "Unit 22 has been in a T/A at Atlantic and Fifth."
Ten minutes later, Chuck was on De Forest Avenue, heading north, when he heard the sirens. Somehow they'd found him again.
But too late. He cackled in glee as he turned left into the flood control drive, barreling down the gravel path toward the mostly-dry concrete bed of the Los Angeles River.
Of course, he hadn't been counting on the helicopter. Looking up, he saw a McDonnell Douglas H-Star helicopter coming up on his rear end – quickly.
Casey had just pulled on to the 710 freeway, headed north, when the call came in. "One-Baker-Eleven, this is air unit… we have the Mustang in the Los Angeles River, adjacent to the 710 freeway."
"HAH!" Casey shouted. "I got you now, Bartowski! I GOT your ass!"
And Chuck was starting to feel like that might be the case. He had a helicopter above him, a dozen LAPD and LBPD units on his tail, and the Mustang could only go so fast.
Desperately, he started looking around for something – anything! – to help him escape… and there it was.
A red switch, next to a red button that said, "Go Baby Go!"
Chuck pumped a fist in victory, and then hit the switch. Giving the nitrous a second to cycle in, he pushed the button – and his body hit the seat as the Mustang violently accelerated.
"Speed's up to 100!" the helicopter reported. "110!"
"Don't lose him!" Casey screamed into the radio.
"This is an H-Star, sir, not an Apache… 120, 130, 140… he's gone."
"God dammit!" Casey shouted, throwing the radio handset down.
"Man, this guy is awesome!" Detective Awesome breathed.
"What? WHAT?!"
"It's probably mostly the car."
Chuck had lost the police, but the nitrous had made Eleanor's engine come dangerously close to overheating, so he pulled into a residential neighborhood just south of Willow St. to let her rest for a moment.
As he parallel parked the Mustang, he came a little too close to a truck and knocked her passenger side mirror off. "Aw, crap," he muttered, reaching out the window. The mirror was dangling by its control cables.
That's when the engine started stuttering. "No, no, no," he said. "Come on, not now!"
And the 289 died. Just then, Chuck saw a Los Angeles police cruiser pull into the field of vision in his rear-view mirror. "Come on, baby," he whispered, cranking the engine. No such luck.
The police cruiser began to turn. "I'm freakin' out, Eleanor!" he said, pumping the gas and cranking the engine again. The big Ford V-8 roared to life, and he squealed out onto the street.
The LAPD officer immediately took notice and followed. "One-Baker-Eleven, I have the Mustang at Caspian and Burnett!" he shouted.
Casey and Awesome locked eyes. They were less than two blocks away.
A moment later, the Mustang blew past them, going the other direction, onto the 710 freeway. Casey flipped the M3 around to follow.
Chuck wove Eleanor in and out of traffic on the 710, creating havoc. He was making it very difficult for the officers driving Crown Vics to follow, and Casey had to grudgingly admit that this guy was a pretty good driver.
But not too good to lose a BMW M3. Casey stayed right on Chuck's tail as he came flying off the 710 onto Pico Avenue. "Ain't nothin' at the end of this street but the ocean, Chuck!" Casey exclaimed as Pico turned into Pier G Avenue.
And Chuck seemed to realize that. He began to feel trapped. Keeping the accelerator to the floor, he reached the end of the pier. "Shit," he breathed. "SHIT!"
He flipped the Mustang around, passing the cop cars going the other direction yet again. He flew through a gate and knocked over a stand, causing a group of pier workers to almost lose their grip on a huge compression tank.
When the police reached the gate, they found themselves blocked off by the workers desperately keeping a grip on the ropes holding up the tank. "MOVE!" Casey yelled. "MOVE!"
They didn't. "Screw this," he said, swinging the M3 around and going through a section of fence. The falling fence brushed a dock worker, causing him to let go of his rope. The tank came crashing to the ground, and punctured. It shot upward, through the cab of a truck, and flew down Pier G Avenue.
Chuck saw this all transpire in his rear view mirror, watching with some satisfaction as the tank disabled three, then four, then five police cars. Then he looked ahead.
A wrecking ball was swinging toward the wall ahead of him, and a San Pedro Police Jeep had just pulled in behind him. Nowhere to go. So he hit the gas.
The Mustang shot forward again, going past the wrecking ball just in time to miss it. The ball instead hit the Jeep, pushing it directly through the wall – and slamming it into the side of Casey's M3.
Casey brought the M3 to a quick stop and Awesome jumped out. "Are you okay?" he asked the San Pedro police officer.
"Yeah, I think so," the officer said.
"Are you sure?" Awesome asked, concerned. "'Cause, you just went through a wall."
Chuck turned left out of the yard onto Ocean Boulevard, the police struggling to catch up. He had twelve minutes to get the car to the dock, or he was dead.
As he flew down Ocean, though, a little black dot in his rear view mirror got larger and larger – Casey's BMW. The front end was mangled, but the car was practically unstoppable.
When he reached the toll booths onto the Vincent Thomas Bridge, Chuck blew right past them, practically causing a CalTrans truck to roll. The police followed, hot on his tail.
Chuck was about a quarter mile onto the bridge when the left lane suddenly closed off. Ignoring the cones, he blasted past – and then saw the cause.
A multiple vehicle traffic accident, right in the center of the bridge. Ambulances, fire units, and a tow-truck with its ramp down, ready to receive a car.
"Crap," Chuck muttered, putting Eleanor into reverse. He began to back up – and came to a stop, as the police pulled up right behind him.
He slammed on the brakes. Behind Eleanor, Casey jumped out of his M3, gun up. "Chuck, get out of the car!" he yelled.
"That's a change from the usual," Chuck thought wryly.
He looked back up the road – and then his eyes rolled back in his head. Images appeared before him – a government car, speeding down the road, tests using a similar tow truck as the one before him, and the test results. "Forty percent chance of fatal injury," the report said.
Chuck's eyes snapped back open. "I'll take those odds," he muttered.
He shifted the Mustang's transmission back into first, and hit the gas. "CHUCK!" Casey yelled behind him.
But Chuck was gone. Fifty, sixty, seventy… he hit the ramp of the tow truck at eighty-two miles per hour and blasted off into the air.
"Holy shit!" he breathed as the Mustang flew over the wreck, starting to angle nose down as it came toward clear freeway.
He felt the rear bumper clip the edge of an ambulance parked under him, and then the front end impacted the surface of the road. The hood crumpled a little, and he could hear the car howling in distress. He swerved left, then right, and then, miraculously, brought the steering wheel back to center.
The car under control, he accelerated off down the road.
At 8:07, he pulled into the dock at the end of Signal Street. Lester came jogging up to the driver's window.
"Sorry, Chuck, we're done here," he informed him.
"Wait, what?!" Chuck said, incredulously.
"Deadline was eight o'clock," Lester replied. "It's 8:07."
"You're gonna argue with me over seven minutes?" Chuck exclaimed.
"Take it up with the boss," Lester said.
Chuck growled as he drove the Mustang, now ejecting steam, out of the dockyard. Five minutes later, he pulled into Fulcrum Salvage and Steel, rolling to a stop in front of the office.
Opening the driver's door, he stepped out of the car. Bryce Larkin came strolling out of the office.
He looked at the Mustang with disbelief on his face. "I said fifty cars, Chuck, not forty nine and a half!"
"Forty-nine – come on, Bryce! I've been up ALL night stealing cars! I'm exhausted, and I think the least you could do is show me a little appreciation!"
Bryce just stared at him, inscrutable. "Look," Chuck said. "The damage isn't that bad. A little fiberglass, some body work, she'll be good as new. You figure a '67 Shelby's worth, what, sixty, seventy, maybe eighty grand? So, we take eighty grand from the two hundred I'm supposed to get, you give me one twenty, and we're done."
Bryce stared back at him, then nodded almost imperceptibly. "Alright," he said.
Chuck couldn't believe his ears. "Alright, then," he said, almost smiling. "And this thing with Morgan, it's done?"
"Done," Bryce replied. And that was when his fist flashed out from behind his back.
As Chuck collapsed to the ground, he saw Bryce slip off a pair of brass knuckles. And then everything went black –
To be continued…