Justice

The roar of a high-performance engine echoed off the skyscrapers, turning heads as a black streak dodged thought the space late night traffic. Distant sirens warned of impending police intervention, but it was the crackle of gunfire that indicated the most immediate danger. Horns blared out in protested as the first car ran a red light, followed closely by four more, all accelerating as they headed up onto the still busy interstate, headed south.

Angel glanced in the rear-view mirror as she down-shifted, instructively dodging a Greyhound Bus; the man bound and gagged in the back seat had given up trying to get out, and his throat was too sore to make any more muffled threats against her. But it was his friends in the other cars, gaining fast, that had her attention. The way they were driving and firing with little regard for anyone else on the road indicated that they didn't care about any collateral damage.

Operations in America were always hard; while the government knew to leave JUSTICE well enough alone, there were those that would have loved to get their hands on an agent, preferable one who could tell them the location of the island JUSTICE used as a prison. A lot of powerful people had been sent there over the years, and Angel knew that there would be people who'd like to see them back. But that was the least of her worries as a steady stream of hot led zipped past her car, putting other lives at risk.

Shifting down into second, the big Corvette's V8 engine roaring in protest, she spun the wheel to the left as fast as she could, sending the car into a controlled skid. Hands moving so fast they were almost a blur, she switched into reverse and slammed her foot down hard on the accelerator. The car protested, but picked up much needed speed as she grabbed the SIG-P226 pistol from the passengers seat. A single shot turned the windscreen into a spiders-wed of micro-fractures that was easily punched clear. Taking one last look in the rear-view mirror to make sure that she wasn't about to hit something, Angel sighted along the iron sights and pulled the trigger.

A pair of closely spaced rounds hit the windscreen of the nearest chase-car, right where the drivers head would have been. The explosion of red that covered the inside of the glass indicated that the second shot had been unnecessary, but some training was so ingrained that it became almost second nature. The now driver-less car swerved from side to side, bouncing off of an 18-wheeler and another car before spinning out of control and ending up side-on to the oncoming traffic. The man in the passengers seat had just enough time to scream and raise his hands in a futile attempt to protect himself before the truck, moving at over 50-mph, slammed into the car with enough force to lift it high into the air. The fuel tank ruptured as it hurtled through the air and down the embankment, a single spark turning it into a flaming ball of death.

Dropping the gun back onto the passengers seat, Angel gripped the wheel as she put the car through another bootleg-turn, putting it back round the right way and accelerated as hard as she could, trying to put as much distance between herself and the carnage she had caused. She grabbed a pair of lightly-tinted glasses from the inside pocket of her jacket and slipped them on, protecting her eyes from the full fury of the wind now blowing in through where the windscreen had until recently been.

Some kind of sixth sence told her to duck moments before a spray of 9mm bullets ripped into the car, shredding her seats headrest. Her hand grabbed for the SIG, but a violent impact from the inside lane knocked the gun off of the passengers seat and spinning into the foot well. She uttered a string of oaths and curses under her breath before twisting the wheel sharply to the right, slamming her car into the vehicle that had hit her. The other driver managed to swerve out of the way, then slammed back into the Corvette, almost hard enough to make it spin out of control.

Gritting her teeth, Angel swerved first left then right, hitting the other car mid way along its length. The force of impact smashed her headlights and set off the passenger-side air bag, but it was enough to rip control out of the driver hands and send the car crashing across the hard shoulder, through the crash barrier and down the embankment, where it hit a tree head-on. The hapless driver and his passenger were propelled through the windscreen at high speed, hitting the same tree that had wrecked their car.

Breathing a slight sigh of relief, Angel slowed the car down and concentrated on her driving.

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The small airfield was all but deserted so early in the morning, but the simple wooden gate guarding the entrance was still down, forcing Angel to duck her head down as she hit it at high speed. Splinters of wood rained down on her car and the two California Highway Patrol cruisers following her with their sirens wailing. A handbrake turn allowed her to take a short-cut though an empty hanger and she pulled up alongside the waiting JUSTICE jet with a squeal of tyres.

“Donovan.” She nodded to her superior as she grabbed her gun off the floor then bundled the man from the back seat out and onto the runway, “One prisoner, slightly bruised.”

“You always bring me such wonderful presents.” Field Director tossed her a leather-bound ID wallet, “Congratulations; you're now Agent O'Reilly of the illustrious Federal Bureau of Investigation. I recommend a Boston accent for this one.”

“You're the boss.” Angel holstered her side-arm and tried to look as non-threatening as she could as the two cruisers skidded to a halt, their drivers jumping out with their own weapons drawn.

“Good evening, officers.” Donovan smiled as he slipped into his best 'good-old-boy' accent, flashing his ID, “Special Agent Bobby Jackson, FBI. This is my partner, Agent Molly O'Reilly. Sorry that out little operation caused so much trouble for you boys.”

“HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!” One of the patrol-man shouted as he drew his gun, the sergeants stripes on his arm singling him out as the superior of the two.

“Now just wait a minute there, boy.” Donovan's eyes narrowed, his voice gaining a harder edge, “In about sixty seconds you're going to get a call from your superiors telling you to stand the hell down, so I recommend that you take a step back and ask yourself just how much trouble you think you'll get in if you interfere with an ongoing Federal investigation of national importance.”

The two patrol-men looked at each other nervelessly, unsure how to react: they both knew just how much trouble an FBI agent could make for them, but they were still not convinced that everything was on the level.

“Just who is that guy?” The sergeant asked, waving his gun at the now babbling prisoner at Angel's feet.

“A small fish in a big pond, all things considered.” Donovan explained, letting his body and voice relax, “But like all small fish, they like to think they're bigger than they are, and tend to find out things that maybe they shouldn't know about the bigger fish. If he plays nice, maybe we'll offer him a deal, the kind that might see him back on the streets while he's still young enough to enjoy it.” He shrugged, “On such foundations are many high-profiles cases built.”

The two cops looked suspicious, but their radios started to squawk. The junior of the two turned away slightly and answered in hushed tones, listening carefully to what he was told by the dispatcher on the other end. His eyes darted from Donovan, to Angel, the prisoner and back to Donovan before he acknowledged the message and stepped forward to whisper something in his sergeants ear. The older patrol-man listened intently for a moment, then nodded, lowering his gun.

“I'm sorry to have kept you, Agent Jackson.” He did his best to regain his composure, “But you might want to think about notifying us the next time you plan something like this in our State: you're not the one who's going to have to explain to the Governor why a state highway was turned into a destruction derby.”

“Well I apologise, son, and it's mighty nice of you to be so understanding about all this.” A huge grin spread across Donovan's face, “And if it's any help, I'll see if I can get the Assistant Director to call the Governor himself and explain everything.”

“That would be appreciated.” The Sergeant nodded again, walking backwards towards his cruiser, “And try and drive a little safer in future.”

“Will do.” Donovan nodded with a smile, waiting until both cars were out of sight before shaking his head, “Shit; I should have been an actor.”

“Did you really get the FBI to take the blame?” Angel asked.

“Marissa my girl, I could get the Pope to take the blame if I wanted.” The Field Director winked, “Now get that sorry son-of-a-bitch on the jet and lets get out of here.” he looked down at the prisoner, “And for your information, we're not the FBI, or any other branch of any government. And boy, you just entered a whole new world of pain...”

To Be Continued...