Police Chase

As the police car zigzagged through the dense traffic of Downtown, its engines roared loudly against the cries of the siren. It was almost nightfall. Golden fingers of sunlight stretched over thick purple clouds in the sky, and the streetlamps were just starting to come to life. Through an ocean of red taillights, Officer Logan Price sailed his vessel with impressive dexterity, avoiding near collisions and turning sharply on secondary streets to dodge traffic jams.

Of course, he was concentrated: Detective Donovan was by his side. Her beautiful blue-clad figure leaned out of the window anxiously, shouting instructions while spotting the suspect who raced through the sidewalk. Price saw her dark hair tied in a bun, revealing her neck in a charming, delicate way. Her perfume filled the car, making Price silently lament that she had a window open. But, Price could not be distracted by his months-long crush on his superior. He had a job to do—and, if he did it well, he would impress her.

Back with his eyes on the road, Price saw the rapidly moving silhouette of the suspect one block ahead, bumping on pedestrians and climbing fences and walls with fluid movements of parkour.

Eliot “Red” Malone, late-thirties, gangster and high-profile bank robber. Hardened after spending half of his life behind bars, he was released because of a technicality: his conviction was overturned due to a botched police investigation. He used this second chance to go back to the gang and murder its leader and second-in-command and assume their places. His recent arrest was a matter of luck for the police. But, it didn’t matter anymore. He had escaped the department. Not only that, but he knocked out two officers and stole the box of evidence against him.

“He is headed to the Old Mill!” Donovan cried. “Price, take the right, we will get there before him!”

“A—Are you sure?” He mumbled.

“Do it!”

He turned and entered a narrow alley, and raced through the lane while hitting trash cans along the way. He lost sight of Malone, and, for a moment, he thought they had lost him for good. Donovan, however, was calm. She leaned back into her seat, smiled, and said:

“We have him now.”

Price didn’t know how the detective could be so sure. He knew that she had lived all her life in that city, and had been a notorious frequenter of nightclubs and dive bars—especially in that region. Still, he was often impressed by her familiarity with those streets that, to him, looked all the same.

So, he trusted her and kept going. When the police car emerged from the alley, Price found himself driving through an empty street paved by cobblestone, and surrounded by old tenement buildings. The street was a dead end. The sidewalk ahead slowly faded into a dry field of dirt. Then, it climbed a bumpy hill toward an entanglement of bushes and shrubs.

“There! Climb that hill, Price!” She cried.

He obeyed, and, after racing through the loose dirt and harsh pebbles, with the bushes scratching against the side of the car, he found an old, meandering road that led uphill.

“Are you sure, detective?” He asked.

“Yes, look. There he is!”

Price leaned forward and whistled, surprised. Indeed, Malone was visible against the ridge of the hill—a mere silhouette in front of the setting sun. Behind him there emerged the shape of an abandoned, ruined steel mill.

“We used to hang out in the old North End Mill.” She said. “Those ruins are crumbling to dust. If we don’t hurry up, he will lose us in there. It’s like a damn maze.”

Price kept driving, turning sharply with the road. When the front gates appeared far ahead, he noticed that Malone had just climbed the outer fence, and was now running toward the dark pavilions of the factory. Price then drove through the gate and raced toward the tattered concrete building. The car’s breaks left skid marks on the cracked pavement, and raised a cloud of white smoke from the burning rubber. Both cops jumped out of the car at once, and started toward the factory.

“We got him now!” Donovan said, excited. “Follow me, Price. And, be careful. This place is treacherous.”

“I got this.” He said, hiding any glimpse of insecurity.

Donovan’s figure in front of him faded into the shadows of the main factory floor, and he followed her with assertive steps, pistol in hands. The last flashes of day glistened through the cracks and holes of the weathered ceiling above. Large black forms stood still and creepy around him: remnants of a massive blast furnace, the long beams of steel girders above. Abandoned and rusty rolling mills leaned on the walls and formed a corridor, cluttered with scrap metal.

Far away, the hurried steps of the suspect echoed, reverberating through the concrete walls.

“Detective, we should have the lights on.” Price whispered.

“Not yet.” She said. “Keep close to me.”

Price stepped closer to her, and saw that she also had her gun in hand. Being closer to the detective was not a problem for him—he knew that Malone was cruel and deranged, and exceptionally strong. Price was afraid, his heart racing painfully inside his chest; but, he knew that, as long as he was around her, Malone would not try to attack her directly.

More footsteps echoed, this time with a metallic pitch. They were coming from above.

“Hurry, follow me.” Said the detective. “He is climbing the catwalks.”

“Why is he going up?” Price whispered.

“Like I said. This place is full of tricks. There are openings on the walls that he can use to escape. Come on, I know where he is!”

She then ran toward the East side, where an ample wall extended above and sideways, forming a great mural covered by the angular shapes of long-forgotten machines. As they ran, the white beams of their flashlights revealed rusty railings and ladders that led to many layers of catwalks above.

“You should give up, officers!” Gnarled Malone far ahead and above, invisible to the two cops. “I’ve killed men for less offense than that!”

“Price, he is up there.” The detective whispered, after she identified the direction of his voice. “Let’s split up: I will flank him from the other side. Climb up this catwalk and make him run to the North. There’s a large storage area in there, with no way out. Do it!”

“C—Catwalk?” Price stuttered, looking up. A rusty steel ladder rested in front of him, disappearing into the shadows above. “But—”

Even before he had time to argue, Donovan was already diving into the darkness ahead and vanishing toward the other end of the catwalk.

Price’s gaze locked onto the horizontal bars of the ladder. His legs trembled, betraying a secret he had kept for months: he was terrified of heights. This fear had taken hold of him two years ago, after a traumatic incident atop a tenement building. During a crossfire, pinned down by drug dealers, wounded, and out of ammo, he found himself trapped between a rain of bullets and a five-story drop onto unforgiving asphalt. He chose the latter, and ended up with two broken legs and a painful experience. Then, after a lengthy treatment, his bones recovered, and he rejoined the force—but, that day, and the terror of the fall, was still vivid in his mind.

“Price, come in?” Came Donovan’s voice over the radio, whispering. “Can you see him from up there?”

The voice jump-scared him, and he quickly grabbed the radio with one hand, and the ladder with the other.

“Uh—” He hesitated, “Yes. I mean, no. It’s dark here. Where is he going?”

“He is headed to the roof, Price. Corner him and lead him to the storage area. I’m counting on you. Over.”

Price then held the ladder with both hands and looked up. His heart was racing painfully, and he was sweating. With effort, he started to climb the ladder, feeling the cold, rusty metal in his palms, and sensing the wobbly movement as his weight fell upon the loose, weathered steel bars. He had only climbed six feet when his legs felt heavy like rocks, and he had to stop. His muscles were tense. He was holding the bars tightly, and could not move up, nor return to the floor.

“Come on, Price…” He whispered to himself, trembling. “You can do it. Come on. What will Donovan think of you? Come on…”

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and, upon finding a strength that he didn’t know he had, he unlocked his joints and started to move, careful not to look down.

“I can’t leave her alone…” He mumbled. “I need to get to her. Come on!”

With an immense effort, he reached the end of the ladder and climbed to the rough surface of the catwalk. At first, he dragged himself through the grated floor, unable to stand up. Then, holding the railing bars, he put himself on his feet—his legs still trembling painfully. From up there, he saw the factory more clearly. Dark, heavy shadows of machinery and clutter formed a jagged silhouette all around him. He was still grasping his pistol, but was pointing it to the side, throwing its beam of white light toward a corner below. Only now he had enough courage to aim forward and look into the path that he was going to take to get to the suspect.

“I… Can… Do… It…” He stuttered, while stepping forward, one foot at the time, hands clamped against the rails. He had to look ahead: the floor below seemed distant and scary, and made him dizzy whenever he even thought about it. “Come on, Price…”

He managed to reach the end of the catwalk. It split into two paths: one to the right, on the same level, that followed the entire contour of the outer walls of the pavilion; another to the left, a staircase that led up toward a much taller platform, which kept going through the factory’s walls, invisible in the shadows. He was trying to decide where to go—based on his courage, and on the direction that the suspect had taken—when a loud thumping noise came from the left. It was Malone’s

“Stop right there!” Price cried, with such a scared tone that the stomping of feet stopped, surprised. “P—Police! Freeze!”

Silence.

Then, boots hitting on the metal above echoed around Price. They moved away from him, and up: to the rooftop of the factory.

“Damn it…” Price said, shutting his eyes.

He knew that he had no choice. With effort, he stepped to the left, climbed the staircase carefully, and pointed the gun forward. His hand was shaking so much that the light beam was wavering.

“Price, where are you?” Donovan’s whisper came through the radio.

“S—Suspect is on the roof.” He stuttered. Then, after recomposing his voice, he continued. “I’m in pursuit. Over.”

“Careful, Price. This rooftop is full of openings and holes. Watch your step. I’m on the storage area. Force him to come here and we’ll catch the son-of-a-bitch!”

“You got it.” His voice barely came out.

Price kept walking into the dark platform above, and, after reaching its other end, he found another flight of stairs that led to a much taller platform. His lantern revealed that this one continued for a few yards and ended on a steel ladder, which climbed a wall and vanished through a hatch tube—a passage to the roof of the factory.

“Come on, Price. You can do this.” He whispered to himself, closing his eyes. In the back of his mind he saw the floor below—harsh and dark, full of clutter, merciless. The world turned and swirled around him. His legs trembled even more.

Then, he thought of Detective Donovan. Her beautiful dark eyes, gentle smile, and soft voice… He thought about her, and about how much he wanted to ask her out. They had been working together for months, but he never had the courage to express his feelings. If she saw how much he failed to climb a simple staircase, she would not only report him as unfit for duty, but would also look down on him. He could be transferred to another department, and they would never see each other again.

With a newly acquired courage, he opened his eyes, clamped his fists on the railings, and concentrated. All the images of the rough floor below, swirling and turning, disappeared. He thought only of Donovan. If he survived this, he would ask her out on a date. He would not delay anymore, and would no longer hide his feelings from her. But, first, he had to overcome this fear. He had to overcome this trauma that had been stuck with him ever since that day.

The first steps were hard. But, as Price kept going, it became easier. Soon, he reached the ladder. He pointed the gun up and the flashlight revealed a rusty pipe that ended on a star-clad night sky. Putting his gun back to its holster, he climbed the ladder. Whenever the memory of that painful fall came to him, he thought of Donovan, and his fear dispersed. He kept going until, at last, his hands found no more bars of the ladder, but the rough concrete surface of the flat rooftop.

Price then climbed up, and, as he stood still, with his legs wobbly and trembling, he saw that he was on top of a massive compound. A flat, gray, concrete platform extended all around him, folding into higher rooftops in some places, lowering in others. The silhouette of ventilation shafts and decayed solar panels rested coldly like ghastly figures. The sky above was now dark and heavy.

“Where are you…?” Price whispered, scanning every dark crevice and black silhouette in front of him. Malone was there, somewhere—and Price knew how dangerous he was. He could be anywhere, ready to hit him in the head with a piece of scrap metal.

As such, with gun in hand, Price stepped forward. He turned off the lights and his figure merged with the shadows. He moved quickly. There was silence.

Then, a silhouette moved somewhere—a figure ran, and, suddenly, it dipped behind a large transformer box and vanished.

“Got you now.” Price whispered, smirking.

He turned on the flashlight, and the white beam revealed Malone, with an expression of terrible anger, only a few paces ahead. He was holding what looked like an old crow bar. But, the light blinded him, so he instinctively threw the bar forward and dipped, once again, into shadows.

“Halt!” Price said.

While the bar flew toward Price, his finger pulled the trigger and fired a loud shot at Malone. The bullet hit metal somewhere.

“You son of a bitch!” Malone cried in the dark. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”

“Give up, Malone! You’re surrounded. Reinforcements are already coming. You have no chance.”

Another piece of metal flew from behind a bunch of silhouettes, and, this time, it hit Price’s forearm as he tried to protect himself. He felt a stinging pain, but resisted, and kept going to where it came from.

A rapid silhouette moved. Price fired again. The silhouette dove downward and sneaked toward the North. It was working, Price thought. He was headed to the storage area where Donovan was waiting.

Price fired another time. The bullet cried against the rough concrete. There was silence, and no movement in sight. Then, Price saw the silhouette of Malone—he was rushing to the Northwest, where the angular form of an overhead crane stood next to the side of the building.

“Stop!” Price cried.

But, it was useless. Malone didn’t fear a gun as much as he feared going back to prison. He ran toward the edge of the building and, from there, he jumped, stretching himself forward, his hands barely grasping a ladder by the side of the crane, while his body swung like a pendulum.

Price saw this and, once again, he was paralyzed. He watched Malone climb the crane like a cat, and reached its horizontal girder with ease.

“Price, where the hell is he?” Donovan asked on the radio.

“He’s escaping through the Northwest. He’s climbing on the crane next to the building!”

“Shit, Price! The bastard knows this place. Hurry up, get to him. If he gets to the other side, he will be able to slip through an opening on the Northwestern wall. Hurry!”

“B—But, where are you?” He stuttered.

“I’m on my way, but I won’t get there in time. It has to be you!”

Price closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He put the gun back on its holster and stepped forward, closer to the edge of the roof. The crane was there, a mere dark shape in the night, towering over the building for twelve feet or more.

Footsteps stomped above the crane. Malone was already halfway through freedom, almost reaching the other side. He was going to escape.

Price looked down and found the floor below, deep like a canyon. He felt dizzy, and his stomach swirled. He closed his eyes and, in an instant, memories of his fall flashed in front of his eyes.

He thought of Donovan. He found no courage inside him, but, in a way, he gave up on searching for it. There would be none, he thought. No courage would ever come to help him face his fear. He had to do it anyway.

As such, with fear racing through his heart and burning the blood on his veins, he took some distance. He then started toward the edge of the building—without thinking, and without looking down—and he jumped. For a moment, he was flying. The feeling was exactly the same that he felt when he jumped from that building. His heart stopped. His hands were forward. Price thought that he was going to find the floor, just like he did last time. But, now, his hands grasped the horizontal bars of the ladder, and didn’t let go.

His body swung to one side, and then to the other, and stabilized. His wobbly legs guided his boots to the bars below. He was holding the ladder.

Price opened his eyes—he didn’t even notice that he had closed them. The floor below seemed distant and deep like the gates of hell. He felt dizzy, but he could not hesitate. He looked up. The top of the crane was only five bars away from him. He climbed each bar without looking down until, finally, he reached the horizontal girdle of the crane.

Kneeling on the girdle, struggling to stand up, he saw Malone’s figure almost at the other side. He then drew his gun and pointed to him.

“Stop!” He commanded.

Malone heard him. He stopped and looked back. But, after a brief thought, he kept going.

“You’re not going to take me alive!” Malone said. “I’ll rather die than go to prison again!”

He kept running. Price wanted to shoot, but it was quite dark, and Malone was far away. He had only enough time to fire two times until the suspect reached the other side of the crane and descended to his freedom. If he missed, Malone would escape. As such, Price stood up. He kept looking forward, pointing the weapon toward the shadowy figure of Malone who, by now, was starting to climb the vertical girdle of the other side, ready to descend.

“Stop!” He cried, and fired.

The bullet hit the horizontal bar of the ladder that Malone was descending. A spark came out and revealed his face of horror and hate. Malone stopped. Price kept going forward—aware that a vast, concrete floor was below him. But, now, he was so much focused on the suspect, on the hunt, that he did not let his fear stop him.

“Don’t move again, Malone! I’m warning you!”

“Freeze, Malone!” Donovan’s voice echoed from below. She arrived: after running through the concrete patio, she was now standing next to the crane, pointing the gun at Malone. He was surrounded. It was over.

Price saw that she was down there, looking at him—she was seeing that he was on top of the crane, holding firmly, with the suspect cornered. Price smiled. He knew that Donovan was going to be impressed by him.

Malone looked downward. He thought about jumping the ladder and falling straight into the concrete floor. But, he hesitated. Without moving out of the ladder, he cried:

“I—I give up. Don’t shoot. I give up…”

Price and Donovan lowered their guns. She looked at him and gestured a thumbs-up, followed by a beautiful smile and by a glance of glistening dark eyes of joy.

Malone was arrested at last, and taken to the precinct. Price managed to hide his fear of heights even as he descended from the crane—after all, Donovan was watching. Yet, during their drive back to the precinct, his legs were still shaking and wobbly, and his heart was still racing painfully inside his chest.

After that experience, nothing else felt so terrifying to Price. Nor heights, nor crossfires…

Not even asking Donovan out on a date.