Prologue - Part 1
{The Night Before the Morning After}
'Can't stop now… Can't stop now…'
The same repetitive thoughts kept playing over and over again in my head like a broken record…
'Cant stop…'
A cracked C.D. that kept getting stuck on the same set of words because the crack was placed ever so perfectly…
'...stop…'
I couldn't stop. I just couldn't.
The cold rain sloshed under each step I took; the canvas of my black Converse All-Stars becoming waterlogged; my socks and feet soaked from the puddle I had stepped in about a block back.
And the yelling…
The voices…
"Freeze! Put your damn hands on your head now!"
That was the third time the officer yelled out to me, demanding that I stop. But I couldn't…
Not for him.
Not for anyone.
How in the hell did I even end up in this shit show anyways? Why did I ever let Brian and Rome talk me into doing something as stupid as this? Breaking and entering? Boosting cars? I guess that was the price for hanging out with the big dogs in town, and in such a small town as Barstow, they were as big as they came. I thought I could be too, but you see how that was working out for me.
'Note to self; kick Brian and Rome's asses once I'm home free.'
Seriously; what the hell did the two of them see in that old drunk of a mechanic's R33 anyways? Sure it was a beautiful car, but even if the blonde-haired prick could get it up and running with a new engine, it was still illegal to drive in the States. Everyone knew what a Skyline was, even the cops.
Especially the cops.
"This is your last warning, kid! Drop down to your knees and put your hands on your head!"
In what I like to call a bout of teenage rebellion, I didn't stop. I just kept on running with the thought in my mind that I wouldn't get caught.
'Can't stop now… Can't sto-'
I don't really know what happened next. One minute I was running like a track star, the next I was facedown in a muddy puddle. My body convulsed excessively as the sensation of electricity jolted throughout my entire body. Within seconds I was swarmed by four boys in blue, all wrestling to pick me up by the scruff of my white cotton shirt. I tried my best to struggle against them, managing to throw a nasty elbow into one of their noses, but they all overpowered me and forced a pair of handcuffs on my wrists before a sharp uppercut to the gut knocked what little wind I had from my lungs.
"It's him, Detective Voorhees. This is the kid from the report, no doubt about it."
Doing my best to hold my head upright, I could see a huge man walking up to me from the end of the alleyway. He held an umbrella above his head to keep himself and the fancy black suit he wore clear of the falling raindrops.
A fed…
"He sure looks like the person that other brat described in his testimony, Officer Jackson. Good takedown." Federal Investigator Voorhees lowered himself down to my level, locking eye contact. "You and your friends sure gave us a run for our money, kid. Had us on the run for eight months now, huntings ghosts. But you know what? All of your work was all for nothing." Voorhees righted himself back up to his full height and removed a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his suit jacket. He turned his back to the wind to light up one of the cancerous sticks before turning his back to me all together, smoke filling the air upon a flashing blue and red backdrop.
"Your boy O'Conner gave you up, Jorge. Hung you out to dry like laundry."
Those words stung like a thousand needles.
Brian gave me up to the cops? No way in hell.
"Bu-bullshit! Brian would neve-"
"Oh but he did, Jorge. How else would I know your name? You all had done such a fantastic job of avoiding detection up until now, but you will find out more at the station." Voorhees dropped his cigarette down to the ground and stomped it out with his brown leather shoe before turning back around to face me again. "Jorge Perez, you are under arrest…"
As the officer read me my rights and the other officers dragged my fighting body into the back of one of their cruisers, I had only one thought on my mind. I wasn't worried about doing jail time or having a record. I didn't care less about what my parents or teachers would think.
All I could think about was Brian O'Conner…
'I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch…'
