A day in the life of Detective Sergeant Cara Jennings...
Following a call from my boss to attend the scene of an accident – some berk had run his shiny orange Lamborghini into a tree so hard it had pushed the engine into the passenger's seat – I found myself on the trail of one Mick Worhurst, a lottery winning multi-millionaire who had apparently failed to advise his wife of same.
It seemed that our Mick started his typical work-day kissing his missus goodbye, letting her believe that he was driving his battered old station wagon to a far-distant long-hours telecoms job in the city. But instead of doing that, he would actually scoot straight over to a nearby storage facility where he would swap the wagon for one of a bevy of exotic automobiles, usually choosing the Lamborghini worth twice as much as the dinky little cottage in which he kept his wife and five children; and then he would mosey on over to a secret million-dollar waterfront townhouse and, more often than not, have his wicked way with Trish, his pneumatic teenaged sexual plaything. It's a tough life for some, no?
As for myself: after a long, slow rogering from my police station's records keeper; flashing my tits at the manager of the storage facility to score the keys to Mick's bright red Elfin Streamliner; and surprising Trish at Mick's sex-pad and pumping her for info by means of subtle sexual torture – I had finally caught up with Mick. Well, after a fashion: we conversed via a webcam link-up which quickly, if not inevitably, turned into a steamy session of cyber-sex. Can I be blamed? The guy was a bastard, all brash and cheek, completely unabashed, and I couldn't help myself. I've always had a soft spot for the cheeky ones – the more brazen, the better. Didn't hurt that he was sexy as all hell, too.
And having watched my quarry pump long, hard and fast on his cock, spilling his load and making me come simply to watch it via webcam, I'd just barely begun to recover when Pagani – the Euro-trash bad guy who'd tried to have Mick killed, his goons running him off the road and destroying his beautiful orange Lamborghini in the process – sent me a message to let me know he was holding Mick's floozy, Trish, as hostage. "Come alone," Pagani told me via SMS, "or she's dead."
Twenty minutes later I was standing outside Pagani's menswear store on the main street of coastal Warburton, hugging the semi-hysterical Trish as she sobbed with reaction and relief, while a squad of heavily-armed policemen pinned Pagani to the footpath. "Fucking bitch!" he was roaring at me even as the SWAT team wrestled him to submission. "I told you to come alone!"
"Oh, but I do hate to come alone, sweetheart," I returned, with a teasing wink.
Truth was: I had very nearly fallen for it. In my initial rage I had planned to roar on down to his shop, drive through his store-front window, and fill the bastard with a dozen police-issued bullets. Any other day I might have done it, too – except, in my haste to clean up and get going, I had inadvertently alerted Mick to Trish's predicament and he had point-blank refused to stay clear.
Much as I'd have loved to have gone guns-blazing, loose-cannon-style on Pagani, he wasn't the main target. I'd made a promise to Mick's wife – the mother of his five children, totally unsuspecting of his lying, cheating, lottery-winning-hiding ways; I'd promised her that I'd bring Mick home, one way or another. So I let the SWAT team claim the glory of the gun-toting, hostage-keeping Pagani, and I waited for my pray.
And even as I comforted Trish, wrapping her possessively in my arms and squeezing her soft, perky bosom into my own, my jaw dropped as I looked up the street. "Trish?" I murmured.
"Yeah?" she managed, between sniffles and sobs.
"Does Mick own a red Ferrari?"
"Yeah," she nodded. "It's brand new, he only got it last week."
Fucking oath it was brand new. It was a gleaming, flawless example of a Ferrari 458 Spider, with its flip-top folding aluminium roof tucked away and its highly-strung, five-hundred horsepower Italian V8 burbling with restrained malice as it idled towards us. There must only have been half-a-dozen 458 Spiders in the country. It had barely even gone on sale – and most Ferraris are sold out eighteen months prior to their initial release, with an additional eighteen-month waiting period after that for the backlog to clear. Mick must have greased some serious wheels to get his hands on one of the first batch off the ship.
Mick Worhurst: you magnificent bastard.
He drove past us, the hand-built engine sounding menacing even at a bare idle as Mick took in the scene at a crawl, agape at the crowds and the cops and the guns.
His eyes met mine for just a moment, and as one we mouthed the same phrase:
"Son of a bitch."
"Trish: get in the Elfin," I added, as Mick flicked down a couple gears and opened up the throttle, treating the assembled crowds to a Formula One-style cacophony of air and fuel being converted to mechanical energy in the most rousing manner possible.
"It's Mick," Trish realised, even as we both broke into a run back to the little red sports car I had liberated from Mick's automotive treasure trove a few scant hours earlier. "It's Mick! He's okay!"
"Only until I catch him, Trish," I assured her. I fired up the Streamliner's mighty V8 and zapped the engine, the vibrations travelling deliciously through the frame of the car, up the seats and giving both of our un-pantied boxes a nice little zing. "Only until I catch him." And we peeled off in pursuit.
Mick had been unable to get far in a hurry, the heavy holiday traffic on Warburton's main rubbernecking strip slowing him mightily. With the Elfin being considerably smaller and less expensive than his showroom-condition Ferrari – combined with the fact that it wasn't mine – I had no compunctions over hopping the kerb and nipping up the footpath to close the distance; a few pedestrians had to leap out of the way, but the ripping, snorting blast of our mighty engine gave them fair and due warning, so I was sure no harm had been done.
Mick and I shared another quick glance as I pulled up alongside him, though a line of cars parked on the kerb separated us – I saw him swear, then he tugged on the wheel and sent the Ferrari flying up a side street. With an oath of my own, I managed to get the Elfin back onto the road via a pedestrian crossing, ducking back to the side street and finally giving proper chase.
I followed Mick out of town onto the highway, where we opened the taps and blurted up to dizzying speeds, leaping aboard the brakes whenever traffic or a corner got in the way before snatching a lower gear and beginning the climb to speed all over again. It was intoxicating – the race-car-like snarls and screams of the Ferrari before us, pulling away slowly but gradually despite the lion-like roar and ear-pinning acceleration of our own machine.
The Ferrari and the Elfin were surprisingly well-matched. The Fezza had significantly more power than the Chevy-sourced V8 in the Elfin, but the Elfin was a few hundred kilos lighter than the Ferrari, which evened the score somewhat. And even though the Italian Stallion laid claim to a more sophisticated chassis, wider tyres and millions of dollars more intensive development than our car, this would only have been a benefit on an empty racetrack. On the crowded highway there simply wasn't enough space or visibility for Mick to exploit the Ferrari's advantages over our humble, yet highly capable, little Elfin.
"Oh my God..." I heard Trish moan as we leaned hard through an open corner through the foothills highway, holding station a few car-lengths behind Mick.
"Are you alright, Trish?" I asked of her, desperately hoping she wasn't about to yargle all over my pretty little appropriated vehicle.
"This is AWESOME!" she whooped.
"Isn't it though?" I grinned. And now, knowing her to be of a hooning spirit similar to my own, I started to show off. I applied some extra throttle around the next bend, causing the tail to step out gracefully, and we both hooted with delight as we had to turn our heads to watch Mick's car out the side window, drifting sideways behind him.
