Chapter 11 – The Sorrow of 70 mph: From Slacking to a Life-and-Death Chase
In September, the Los Angeles freeways unfolded beneath the sun like a flowing river of steel and chrome.
The asphalt of Wilshire Boulevard shimmered in the heat, blurring the distant silhouette of the Santa Monica Mountains into a hazy mirage.
An eastbound Chevrolet Silverado, doing 75 mph, weaved aggressively through traffic; the speedometer needle quivered past the posted speed limit signs.
Through the windshield, Erin in the passenger seat caught the truck's chrome bumper glinting in the sunlight; on a nearby billboard, some luxury real estate ad displayed a sun-drenched beachfront property in Malibu.
She noticed Sean unbuckle his seatbelt, fingers drumming the steering wheel in perfect rhythm with the Eagles' "Hotel California" playing on the radio.
That Chevy was sliding into the fast lane at 70 mph, its taillights creating streaks across Erin's field of vision.
The radar unit mounted on the dashboard, a small screen of digits and readings, suddenly flashed a bright red "70."
The posted speed limit here was 45 mph, so the Silverado that had just blown past them was doing over 55% above the limit—seventy miles per hour.
We've got live action! was Sean's immediate thought.
He'd planned to coast through the shift, but no such luck—time to actually earn the paycheck.
He hit the light bar and siren switch, smooth as breathing.
A sharp yank of the wheel and a stomp on the accelerator sent the cruiser lurching into pursuit, leaving rubber marks on the asphalt.
A cop who can't execute a proper pursuit maneuver is no cop at all.
"4-Adam-9, in pursuit of a black Chevrolet Silverado, vehicle code 23103."
Code 23103 California Vehicle Code means reckless driving; Sean's rapid-fire radio transmission told Dispatch: Western Division two-officer unit nine, we're pursuing a black Silverado for reckless driving.
'Western Division two-officer unit nine, we've got a black Chevrolet Silverado driving recklessly.'
"Suspicious vehicle; running plates now for confirmation."
"Copy, 4-Adam-9."
The stolen black Silverado blasted down Wilshire Boulevard at increasing speed; in its side mirror the patrol car's red-and-blue strobes looked like pursuing demons.
Inside: one Latino driver, one white passenger, and an eight-year-old girl drugged and unconscious in the back seat.
"Cops are on us—what do we do?"
The Latino behind the wheel asked nervously, voice shaky, hands trembling on the steering wheel.
"Pull over, cut the engine, hands where they can see them."
Instead, the white man in the passenger seat drew a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield 9mm—clearly with no intention of surrendering peacefully.
Nine-round magazine, 6.1 inches long, barely an inch thick—one of the slimmest compact pistols made, easy to conceal, and cheap enough to throw away after use.
The driver stared at him like he'd lost his mind: "Blake, are you insane? We've got nine ounces of black tar heroin and a kidnapped eight-year-old back there—you think these cops are blind?"
"Cyril, I'm not crazy. Keep running and they'll call in every unit in the division; we'll never lose them in this traffic."
"You think they're Helen Keller?" Cyril sure had a way with words.
"Stop the car, let them approach, I'll drop both of them—buys us ten minutes to disappear. It's a stolen ride anyway; we'll jack another vehicle." Blake laid out his plan.
Clever strategy—classic "play dead until they get close."
After explaining, Blake snarled: "And you—if you ever get high before a job again, I swear I'll put a bullet in your head myself."
Cyril knew the mess was his own junkie fault; without his tweaking behind the wheel they wouldn't have attracted police attention.
He thumped his chest, swearing he'd get clean the moment they escaped.
Blake didn't believe a single word—addict promises evaporate the second withdrawal kicks in.
He silently vowed this job was their last together; partners like Cyril were liability magnets.
While the Silverado crew plotted, Sean ran the license plate "1USE537" through the system.
California registration.
How could he tell? U.S. license plates don't have state abbreviations stamped on them.
Each state uses distinctive designs—California's features either a sunset over the Golden Gate Bridge or bears and stars.
Just then his long-silent system interface chimed to life: Emergency Task—"Hostage Rescue and Narcotics Interdiction."
Mission Brief: "Criminal partners Cyril and Blake wanted for excessive speeding, grand theft auto, illegal firearms possession, weapons trafficking, kidnapping, and narcotics distribution."
Note: "Keep your weapon ready; bullets speak louder than words."
Opposition: Two armed suspects with Smith & Wesson M&P Shield 9mm pistols.
Potential Outcomes: "Administrative leave / possible gang retaliation."
Reward: $27,400.
If the system was alerting him, the Silverado ahead was dirty as hell.
Now Sean had what amounted to X-ray vision: red threat outlines tagged the two occupants as "extreme danger."
The pickup's right turn signal started flashing—clearly setting up an ambush position.
If they surrendered, their threat colors would fade; the crimson glow told Sean they were still planning to engage.
Dispatch crackled over the radio: "4-Adam-9, be advised that black Silverado was reported stolen this morning from a Westwood residence—occupants are likely the auto theft suspects."
Sean acknowledged: "Copy that. I'm at the intersection of La Brea and Olympic Boulevard—requesting backup units, suspects possibly armed and dangerous."
"Copy, 4-Adam-9. Closest backup units ETA five minutes."
"Sean, how did you know that truck was stolen?" Erin asked, rookie curiosity getting the better of her even during a pursuit.
Even while chasing suspects, Sean maintained his composure, slipping into instructor mode.
"What model vehicle is that ahead of us?"
Erin blinked, then answered: "Black Chevrolet Silverado pickup."
Sean broke it down for her: "Exactly—older model year, weak factory anti-theft system, valuable easily-fenced parts like catalytic converters and tailgates—thieves target them constantly."
"An easy-to-steal vehicle doing fifty-five percent over the speed limit in broad daylight—what else could it possibly be?"
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