Chronic Fear by Scott Nicholson Page A

neighboring department has a road block a mile ahead,” Frady said.
    “I pull off pursuit and check on the collision victims,” Mark said. “Calling it in, of course.”
    Frady pulled a twisted crease in one side of his mouth, an expression that passed for a smile. “Serve and protect,” he said. “The first word is serve .” He slapped the top of the sedan. “Good enough.”
    A series of orange cones were arranged across the empty parking lot. Mark had negotiated the obstacle course in just under three minutes, burning a little rubber off the tires but managing not to tip any cones. He’d scored an 87, which wouldn’t have him busting Vin Diesel in a Fast and Furious sequel anytime soon, but at least he hadn’t skidded into the chain-link fence that surrounded the lot.
    Several students waited their turns on a weedy courtyard between the lot and main campus building. They were all dressed in the loose black athletic pants and gray T-shirts that bore the BLET logo. The outfit was part of the indoctrination, a sort of junior varsity uniform to prepare them for blues and badges. Two women were in the class, and they were both as tough as twisted rawhide.
    Mark had not beaten the women at anything yet, although he suspected it would be his turn to shine when they trained for presenting evidence in court. If only he could keep his head straight and concentrate.
    “All right, Morgan, we need a braking maneuver and a full turn in pursuit,” Frady said.
    “Which way?”
    Frady smirked. “Listen to the radio, rookie. Now wheel it to the start.”
    While Mark navigated the cruiser to the end of the hundred-yard lot, he eyed the crumbling asphalt. The roads wouldn’t be in any better shape once he pinned on a badge, given the sad state of infrastructure funding. Fortunately, government leaders didn’t dare cut law enforcement budgets, so he should be able to land a job even if he didn’t make top of the class.
    Frady had a short-range CB radio system set up in the courtyard. The receiver in the cruiser was set to a channel used infrequently but sometimes prone to interference. Frady’s reasoning was that real-life emergency communications often featured overstepping and crowding, so an officer should be skilled in filtering out the noise.
    “How’s it looking, Unit Seventeen?” Frady’s broadcast voice issued from the dashboard speaker, using Mark’s assigned number to simulate on-duty patrol.
    “Looks like asphalt’s a little—”
    “All units, Ten-Thirty-two!” Frady barked. “Armed robbery suspect heading west on Tree Street.”
    “Unit Seventeen in pursuit,” Mark said into his mike, gunning the engine and accelerating. “Tree Street” was the name of the straightaway where the students practiced accelerating, braking, and dodging obstacles. The route had a series of four exits, each at a different angle and all named after various species of trees.
    As Mark pushed the cruiser to sixty, he fully expected Frady to throw the 90-degree left turn at him, which was the most difficult. He braced for the fake name of “Dogwood Avenue” to come over the radio.
    “Suspect in a maroon SUV, armed and dangerous,” Frady said, spitting the words like staccato bullets.
    “This is Unit Seventeen. I’m Ten-Eighty with suspect in sight,” Mark replied, talking fast but steadily. Even though the situation was make-believe, he couldn’t help the surge of adrenaline coursing through him. Part of the drill was to maintain control with only one hand on the wheel, the other busy manipulating the mike.
    Mark glanced to the side where Frady stood by the radio unit, the students gathered around as if part of some frat prank.
    He zoomed past Dogwood. Goddamned Frady. Trying to show me up. He’ll probably throw Birch at me just to keep me off balance.
    “Suspect turning onto Cedar!” Frady said.
    The fuck?
    Mark slammed on the brakes, and despite triggering the anti-lock mechanism, the rubber bit at the pavement