Work Text:
The Mustang's engine was still warm when John unlocked the door, his fingers working the thin metal strip with ease. It had been three minutes, maybe four, since the owner walked into the diner. Plenty of time for a clean boost.
He slid into the driver's seat, his hands moving to the ignition. The car smelled like leather and gun oil—not the usual ride he was used to stealing. Something heavier hung in the air, sharp and metallic. John's fingers hesitated over the wires.
Suddenly, glass exploded—the rear window cracked as a bullet went through, and John moved quickly, rolling over the center console into the back seat as the driver's door swung open. A man jumped in—lean, with short red hair and eyes wide with adrenaline.
"You fucker!" The stranger started the engine, reaching for the gear shift as another shot rang out. John pressed himself against the floor, tasting copper and burnt rubber. The guy hadn't seen him yet.
The Mustang lurched forward. Through the shattered rear window, John saw a SUV about fifty yards ahead, with two people visible in it. The driver next to him was steering with one hand while he fumbled for a gun.
"Thought you could run?" The redhead said, firing three quick shots at the car in front of him. "Shouldn't have done that, Cozier!"
John's chest tightened. This wasn't just a random boost. He was caught in someone else's fight, and his mind, trained from years on the streets and military, was already calculating angles. The moment the guy saw him, he wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in his head.
The SUV's passenger window rolled down, and John saw the muzzle flash before he heard the shots. Three rapid pops, and the Mustang's windshield spider-webbed on the passenger side. The redhead cursed, ducking lower while maintaining his grip on the wheel.
More gunfire erupted from the SUV—the passenger was firing while the driver weaved through traffic. The Mustang took another hit, this one punching through the driver's side door, missing the redhead's leg by inches.
Three more cars joined the chase, closing in on the SUV. This meant the redhead wasn't alone—perhaps gang members—but it mostly reduced John's chances of getting out of here alive.
The redhead took a sharp right, getting closer. The SUV's driver was good but trapped. John could see it in the way they were being pushed toward the industrial area where the roads were narrow.
He could see sparks flying off the hoods of the other pursuit cars as bullets found their marks.
He had spent half his life being hunted, he knew how this ended. The math was simple: four cars against one, and in about three minutes, everyone in that SUV could be dead. Problem was, so could he.
But he knew how to change the ending.
He moved quickly—his forearm went around the redhead's throat, cutting off his surprised shout, while his other hand grabbed the wheel. The redhead's elbow hit John in the ribs, but he was ready for it. He twisted, using the guy's momentum against him, and heard the satisfying crack of cartilage against the dashboard.
The gun in the guy's hand fired twice, his finger still on the trigger, wild shots that punched holes in the roof, before John got control of the wrist and slammed it against the door frame. The pistol fell onto the floor, and the body went limp.
"Nothing personal," John muttered, though the redhead couldn't hear him anymore.
He pushed the guy's body to the passenger side and slid behind the wheel without missing a beat. The other pursuit cars were still focused on the SUV ahead, likely unaware of what had just happened to their friend.
The first pursuit car was tight against the SUV's left side, trying to push it toward a concrete barrier. John dropped back, letting them think he was just repositioning, then pressed down hard on the gas. The Mustang roared to life as he sped up on their blind spot.
The driver in the third pursuit car never saw it coming. John hit their rear quarter panel at sixty miles per hour, sending them spinning until they crashed into a light pole. The crash was loud enough to feel in his bones.
One down.
John grabbed the gun from the floor—a Glock 17, feeling familiar in his hand. The second car was already reacting, the driver's head turning to find the threat. John saw the moment they realized their teammate was gone and the Mustang was no longer on their side.
He pulled up beside them, close enough to see fear in the driver's eyes. He aimed low and fired twice. The front tire burst first, rubber flying across the road. The second shot hit the back tire on the same side.
The car swerved violently to the right, the driver struggling to keep control as the rims scraped against the concrete. They crashed into the guardrail and flipped, rolling twice before landing upside down in a drainage ditch.
Steam rose from their engine.
Two down.
The SUV's passenger must have noticed, because he stopped firing at the Mustang entirely and concentrated his shots on the remaining car, bullets peppering the windshield.
John could see the driver of the first pursuit car trying to figure out what had just happened to his backup.
This driver was better than the others—maybe someone with real experience. He didn't panic when John pulled up beside him. Instead, he rolled down his window and raised his own weapon, looking for a shot. But a bullet coming from the SUV's passenger redirected his focus to the car in front, giving John the opening he needed.
John's bullet hit the driver right below the temple. His head snapped back, and the car veered sharply left before crashing into a parked delivery truck.
Three down.
The street fell silent except for the sound of two engines and the distant wail of sirens. John pulled up, and noticed the SUV slowing down and coming back. He readied himself to shoot again—he had eliminated the other cars for his own safety, but nothing suggested that these two were any friendlier than the redhead and his crew.
The SUV came to a stop beside the Mustang. The driver, a Black man who appeared older than John, had careful eyes and steady hands. The passenger was younger, thin, and wore a smirk that could convey both "well done" and "you're next".
They stared at each other across twelve feet, engines idling. The driver rolled down his window first, killing the engine.
"That was some driving. And some shooting," he said. His voice had the weight of someone used to command, but there was real respect in it. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it," John said.
The Black man nodded slowly. "So what's your story? Wrong place, wrong time?"
John gestured around the interior of the Mustang with his free hand. "I was interested in the car."
The silence stretched for a moment before the man smiled—the kind of smile that suggested he'd found something unexpected and valuable, and stepped out of the car.
"So you boost cars," he said, not asking.
"Among other things."
The younger one was studying John closely, climbing out of the passenger seat. "Other things, huh? You took out three cars like it was nothing. That's not how regular people act."
John shrugged. "You were being chased by armed men in downtown—doesn't sound too regular to me either."
The Black man's smile grew warmer, more inviting, like he was extending a hand. "Interested in more?"
John looked in the direction of the three smoking wrecks behind them, then at the two men. The sirens were getting closer, but neither men seemed worried.
"Depends," he said finally. "What kind of more?"
The man's smile widened. "The kind that pays better than boosting cars."
The younger man was scanning the street for more threats. "We should go," he said. "Local police will be here in three minutes."
The Black man nodded but kept his eyes on John. "You coming?"
John stepped out of the Mustang and glanced back at it—the rear window shattered, the roof riddled with bullet holes, and new damage he hadn’t noticed before. Then he looked at the two men who'd just offered him something that felt like a chance wrapped in danger.
The sirens were getting closer.
"Yeah," John said, leaving the Mustang behind and climbing into the back seat of their SUV. "I'm coming."
:::
THE END