Thrill Kill by Brian Thiem Page A

he usually did. He took a slight right onto Market Street and pulled to the curb in front of a fast-food restaurant that advertised Cajun chicken and fish. Tanya waved at them from inside the door and trotted to their car with short high-heeled steps.
    Braddock lowered her window and Tanya leaned inside. “I think he the muthafucker.”
    “The man you described to the dispatcher?” asked Braddock.
    “Yeah, the Mexican.”
    “Did you see a gun?” asked Braddock.
    “He put his hand on it under his shirt.”
    “But you didn’t actually see it?”
    “No, but I know when a dude’s packing.”
    “What did he say, Tanya?” asked Sinclair.
    “He said he wanted to take me or some other girls to the park and party like he did with Blondie.”
    “Let’s get a better description.” Braddock opened her notebook and poised her pen. “You told the dispatcher that he was Hispanic—”
    “Yeah . . . there he is!” Tanya shouted, pointing at a dark-gray car creeping past them on the street.
    Sinclair yanked the shift lever into drive as Braddock grabbed the radio microphone and said, “Thirteen-Adam-Five, we see the possible one-eighty-seven vehicle southbound thirty-one-hundred block of Market.”
    Sinclair pulled from the curb, cranked the wheel to the left, and punched the accelerator. The big Crown Vic spun in a 180 on the wet pavement. The gray car ran the light at San Pablo. Sinclair flipped on his emergency lights and siren and took off after him.
    “Code thirty-three,” the dispatcher said. “Thirteen-Adam-Five is in pursuit of a possible one-eighty-seven vehicle southbound thirty-one-hundred block of Market. Confirm this is the Toyota Camry, black, partial plate six-four-three.”
    “It’s actually a dark-gray Honda Accord,” said Braddock. “I’ll get you a plate when I can. Turning westbound on Twenty-Sixth.”
    Sinclair braked hard and felt the chatter of the ABS that prevented the Ford’s wheels from locking up and sending them into an out of control slide on the wet pavement. The Honda fishtailed in the turn. It then straightened and sped down Twenty-Sixth Street. Sinclair powered out of the turn, finessing the gas pedal to keep the car below the speed where it would break loose. Within a block, he gained to within three car lengths of the Honda.
    “California license Five-George-Lincoln-Henry-Six-Four-Three,” Braddock said over the radio. “Turning north on Chestnut.”
    The Honda took this turn more slowly. Sinclair stayed right on its tail.
    “Plate shows a ten-eight-fifty-one reported stolen out of Dublin today’s date,” said the dispatcher. “Speed and conditions when you can.”
    Braddock knew the liability game they were forced to play as well as Sinclair did. If they were honest and said they were going fifty in a twenty-five mph zone with heavy early evening traffic and people on the street, some patrol supervisor or commander more concerned about lawsuits than catching murderers would order them to abort the chase. “Forty in a twenty-five, light traffic, no pedestrians,” Braddock said as they zipped past two people standing next to the stop sign that the Honda sped through without slowing.
    Sinclair followed the Honda to the next street, where it turned right. It ran the stop sign at San Pablo. A truck going southbound screeched to a stop to avoid hitting it. Sinclair weaved around the truck and onto San Pablo. He then shot across the four-lane road just in time to see the Honda turning left onto Market. It was going too fast to make the turn. The Honda spun around and slid onto the sidewalk and into a low chain link fence that surrounded a vacant lot.
    Sinclair slammed on the brakes and stopped two car lengths behind the crashed car. The driver bailed out and sprinted down the sidewalk on Thirty-Second Street. The normal protocol for two-officer cars was for the passenger officer to pursue fleeing suspects on foot, while the driver takes the car around to the next block to