Almost at the same time that Rourke drove his Raptor F-150 out of the parking lot, the FBI agents arrived on the scene with ASP officers, kicking off a high-speed highway chase.
The "Little" in Little Rock's name was indeed fitting—Rourke took less than ten minutes to cross the city. After passing the bridge to the north bank of the Arkansas River, he turned west onto I-40.
The GMC "Savana" van that the FBI had driven to the scene was obviously not suited for a highway chase. Jack immediately commandeered an ASP Dodge Charger and took Clay along.
Ordinarily, street racing with a girl in the passenger seat would be ideal, but this wasn't a normal race. Jack was confident in his driving skills, but his opponent had a gun. In this situation, bringing along the strongest combatant was the smarter choice.
However, once Rourke's Raptor F-150 hit the highway, Jack realized that bringing a 200-pound man along was actually a disadvantage. The former judge was practically trying to shove the gas pedal into the transmission, maintaining a breakneck speed of no less than 180 km/h (112 mph) throughout the chase.
At such speeds, a gunfight was out of the question, and even attempting a PIT maneuver would be extremely dangerous. The idea that a single pebble could send a car flying might be an exaggeration, but losing control of the steering wheel at this speed would certainly mean a fatal crash.
Contrary to popular belief, ASP highway patrol officers weren't reckless. PIT maneuvers were only executed when there was no threat to civilian traffic. While several additional patrol cars joined the chase, they all maintained a disciplined trailing formation.
Dodge had two muscle cars that carried the Hellcat name. One was the Challenger Hellcat, a two-door model more akin to a sports car.
The other was the Charger Hellcat, a four-door sedan—the same undercover police car Jack had in New York.
Having grown accustomed to the Charger Hellcat, Jack quickly familiarized himself with the ASP Charger's handling.
After trailing several ASP patrol cars for a while, he finally gave in to the adrenaline rush. He slammed the gas pedal, leading to the nerve-wracking moment that had Clay breaking into a cold sweat.
After a Raptor F-150 and a fleet of ASP patrol cars had been barreling down I-40 for over ten minutes, the rarely deployed ASP police helicopter made an appearance to observe the pursuit.
The police radio crackled with dispatch updates. As highway patrol officers controlled traffic at multiple intersections, the number of civilian vehicles on the road dwindled.
With the lanes becoming increasingly empty—minutes passing without a single civilian vehicle in sight—Jack floored the gas pedal.
The Dodge Charger's deep, throaty engine roared back to life. Clay no longer paid attention to the roadside signs and trees zipping past. His eyes were locked on the speedometer and the rapidly approaching Raptor F-150 ahead.
100 mph (160 km/h)... 110 mph (177 km/h)... 120 mph (193 km/h)...
As the Charger's reinforced push bumper closed in on the Raptor F-150's left rear wheel, Clay's heart lodged in his throat.
The engine's growl transitioned from a powerful rumble to a sharp, explosive howl, nearly drowning out the blaring police sirens. The four ASP patrol cars, now falling behind, struggled to maintain a safe distance, their drivers suppressing their frustration.
Rourke, watching through his rearview mirror, realized Jack's intention. However, his unmodified Raptor F-150 had a top speed of only 125 mph (201 km/h), no matter how hard he pressed the pedal.
As the police car inched closer to his rear bumper, the former judge made a split-second decision—he slammed on the brakes.
Screeeeech!
The sharp screech of the tires was accompanied by a cloud of blue smoke. The Raptor F-150 left a 30-meter-long skid mark before coming to a halt in the middle of the road.
Jack's reaction was lightning-fast. The moment he sensed the sudden deceleration, he instinctively hit the brakes as well. The inertia sent both men lurching forward, their seatbelts straining under the force.
Just as the Charger's front end was about to pass the Raptor's body, Jack abruptly released the brakes, yanked the steering wheel, pulled the handbrake, and lightly tapped the gas pedal.
The tires left four erratic, charred streaks on the highway as the Charger executed a perfect drift. The car spun 180 degrees, coming to a stop just five meters in front of the Raptor, its headlights aimed directly at Rourke.
VROOOM!
Jack revved the engine, the Hellcat's roar a clear challenge.
The next second—
BANG!
An ASP patrol car, unable to stop in time, slammed into the rear right corner of the Raptor at no less than 60 km/h (37 mph).
Even with its full-size truck frame, the Raptor F-150 couldn't withstand such a heavy impact. The collision spun it sideways—just in time for a second ASP patrol car to arrive.
BANG!
This one crashed directly into the middle of the Raptor's side.
Before the dazed Rourke could react, a third ASP patrol car sped in and rammed into the Raptor's left front tire, completely disabling the truck.
"Let me f***ing see your hands!"
"Hands up!"
"Get the hell out of the car, you bastard!"
"Open the door! Now!"
Jack hastily threw the Charger into reverse, quickly backing up over ten meters to escape the ASP officers' overlapping firing angles.
Then—
"Gun!" someone shouted.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Clay, who had been about to unbuckle his seatbelt and draw his gun, froze mid-motion. His right hand hung in front of his chest as he stared, wide-eyed, at the scene before him.
After a long moment, he turned to look at Jack, who was just as stunned.
"The next time we come to Arkansas," Clay muttered, "remind me never to speed."
—
After Howard Rourke attempted to resist and was efficiently turned into a beehive by the ASP troopers, the fugitive task force didn't immediately return to New York. Instead, they checked into a private, members-only hot spring resort in Hot Springs.
Hot Springs National Park wasn't a particularly exciting destination. Compared to natural wonders like the Grand Canyon, it lacked impressive scenery.
But it had hot springs.
Like the famous line, 'Spring's chill grants a bath in Huaqing Pool, where warm waters smooth the skin like congealed cream.'
As Jack sat in the steaming water, flanked by two women in stunning bikinis, the fire in his chest burned like the magma hidden beneath the Earth's thin crust.
No amount of ice-cold beer or whiskey on the rocks could extinguish it—instead, every sip only added fuel to the flames.
(End of Chapter)
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