New short story! This is the one Ommwriter lost, but I feel I wrote it better this time around. When one door closes…

***

The target came into view. A long truck with a trailer, its load in need of removal. I pushed the accelerator down, drawing closer. Our car slipped through the street lights of the Eastern Freeway, nary another car in sight. Every strike I imagined my vehicle as a panther, jet black, hunting a slow and dimwitted prey. I smiled to myself as we drew up behind it.

Turning back to my compatriots, their balaclavas concealing who they really were, I gave the nod. It was go time. They scrambled for the equipment–homemade sticky grenades–and unwound the windows in preparation. Then my whole stomach twisted and fell as high beams cut into the car from the back.

“This is the police,” a voice said over a loudspeaker. “Desist immediately, or we will use force.”

“Shit,” someone said, maybe me.

No wonder this shipment had been scheduled for so early in the morning. It was a trap. But I knew that didn’t mean that these cars weren’t real, didn’t have a destination. It just meant they would be harder to dispose of. I thought of the numerous attacks I had made during the day. Some shipments were destroyed during the day, while waiting at the lights. Immobilised then set alight. This was meant to be far easier. Such is life.

“We’re going ahead with the plan,” I said. “We will not let ourselves be caught.” We weren’t meant to talk, as another precaution to identification, but I was damned if I didn’t take charge. I didn’t know how green the other two were.

They both nodded, and I just wish I could have seen whether or not they had resolve on their brows at that moment. Either way, I sped up to level with the truck, and that’s when the shooting began.

The whole rear of the car exploded with sparks and flashes, but I knew the reinforcement that it had would hold. For a while. The man on the right held a grenade in each hand, ready to launch them. He managed to fling one and have it stick right in the middle before I came too close to the cab. I looked up and into the barrel of a shotgun.

Thankfully the trucks passenger had aimed at J.B. number one as opposed to me, otherwise the whole thing would have been over. That’s the difference between amateurs and warriors–making the right choice under pressure. The man fell back into the car, an explosion of viscera spraying my interior. The other grenade was still in his hand. I swerved away to the left, still under fire, before accelerating and arcing across the front of the truck.

We were on the other side, and I motioned for J.B. two to continue. He didn’t seem to shaken up, which was a bonus. He snatched the bomb from the dead guy’s fingers, as well as another from the bag. In quick succession he managed to land one on the back of the cab, and another towards the rear. He went for a third, but I quickly pulled away. That would be plenty.

Again a storm of bullets struck my car, one shattering the side-view mirror. I cursed something, and managed to glimpse J.B. two leaning out the window. He took a bullet through the throat before I could blink. I cursed again, and rammed my hand down onto the car horn. A little bit of ingenuity on my part.

The truck no doubt exploded in a fine ball of flames, taking its supply of luxury cars with it. They had been Ferraris, a worthy goal indeed. What I didn’t expect was the bright light and shockwave from behind.

The cop car. J.B. two had somehow lobbed a grenade onto the cop car. I didn’t know whether to feel safe, or in more danger than ever.

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