Full Throttle

"High-speed chases make everything else fade away. Can't dwell on personal disasters when you're briefly flying through rain at illegal speeds."

"Karl, we have to go!" I called out to him, my voice rising with a burst of energy. The sudden shift to a high-speed pursuit was exactly what I needed—action, adrenaline, rapid decision-making that left no room for overthinking or dwelling on complicated feelings.

"What is it?" Karl yelled back, his voice carrying a hint of confusion as he picked up his pace, finally abandoning his reluctant approach for something closer to urgency.

"A priority call has just come over the radio, two cars are driving at high speed just off the highway near Collinsvale. We're the closest unit. Quick, let's go!" I answered, as I waved my arms animatedly, trying to convey both the immediacy of the situation and my need to move, to act, to do something that wasn't standing around feeling miserable about my personal disasters.

Karl's expression shifted immediately—I could see his detective brain kicking into gear, weighing options and protocols. But then his face set into lines of caution and responsibility.

"We can't just leave the crime scene," he began, his tone carrying that particular note of measured reason that usually meant he was about to explain why my idea wasn't sound police procedure.

I quickly waved him off, impatience sparking through me. We didn't have time for this. "It'll be fine. I've already notified dispatch and forensics are on their way. We can swing by afterwards to check up on things, but this call is urgent." The words tumbled out fast, confident. I felt certain in my decision—our presence was needed elsewhere immediately, and standing around in the rain debating protocols was wasting precious response time.

Karl opened his mouth—probably to raise another objection about proper procedure or chain of custody or any of the dozen other details he obsessed over—but I was already moving towards the car, my decision made. Forensics would secure the scene. The Owens' house wasn't going anywhere. But two cars racing at high speeds? That situation was unfolding now, and we were the closest unit. It was that simple.

"Shift over, I'll drive," he ordered, gesturing towards the passenger seat.

I paused, torn between irritation at the command and pragmatic recognition that Karl was right. He was better at high-speed driving—steadier hands, more experience with pursuit situations, and, let's be honest, less likely to be distracted by a pounding headache and likely torn stitches. Besides, arguing about it would waste more time, and time was exactly what we didn't have.

"Come on then!" I called out to him, already clambering over the centre console towards the passenger seat in one fluid motion that would have been more graceful if everything didn't hurt. I made myself comfortable—or as comfortable as possible given the circumstances—settling into the seat and immediately reaching for my seatbelt.

But Karl didn't move. He stood there outside the car, his right arm casually resting on the top of the open door frame, just... looking at me. Through the rain and the window and the accumulated tension between us, I caught his gaze, saw his eyes following the movement of my body as I shifted positions, tracking me with an intensity that made something low in my stomach flutter despite everything.

Really, Karl? Right now?

Part of me—a part I actively resented right now—enjoyed the attention, the subtle acknowledgment that he saw me, that I affected him even when everything between us was complicated and messy and probably doomed. There was something primitively satisfying about catching him watching, about knowing that whatever else was broken between us, the physical attraction at least remained mutual.

But we had a car chase beckoning. A high-speed pursuit. Actual police work that required immediate attention. This was possibly the worst moment in the history of worst moments for him to be standing there appreciating the view.

"Karl!" I snapped, my voice sharp enough to cut through whatever reverie he'd fallen into.

He seemed to shake himself, awareness flooding back into his expression as though he'd momentarily forgotten where he was or what we were doing. He jumped into the driver's seat with sudden decisiveness, pulling his door shut with a thud that resonated through the car's frame.

Without any further delay, Karl slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The patrol car's response was immediate and visceral—the powerful V8 engine roared to life, a deep, rumbling growl that I felt in my chest as much as heard. The sound was primal, aggressive, exactly the kind of raw power that made pursuits simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.

We were thrust back into our seats as Karl expertly navigated the car down the long, dirt driveway of the Owens' property, the force of acceleration pressing me against the headrest. The rear wheels struggled briefly to find traction on the slick, wet earth, causing the car to fishtail slightly before Karl's skilled hands brought us back under control. The wild start sent a spike of adrenaline through my system, sharp and clarifying, burning away the last remnants of my earlier melancholy.

This was what I loved about the job—the unpredictability, the rapid response, the way it demanded total focus and left no room for dwelling on personal complications. My mind sharpened, my senses heightened, every nerve suddenly alive and engaged with the immediate present rather than the messy past.

Unable to suppress the smile that spread across my face despite the seriousness of the situation, I picked up the radio, my movements crisp and efficient now, all professional focus. "CITY632 requesting an update on the two speeding cars sighted near Collinsvale," I relayed, my voice steady and clear, projecting the confidence of a detective who knew exactly what she was doing.

"Copy that, CITY632. We already have a chopper in the air. They're looking for the vehicles now. What is your location?”.

Karl had slowed the patrol car to a stop where the Owens' driveway met the main road—a critical junction that would either lead us back towards Glenorchy or further into Collinsvale proper. He paused there, engine idling with suppressed power, clearly thinking through the best strategic approach. The rain continued its relentless assault on the windscreen, the wipers working furiously but barely keeping up with the deluge. Visibility was rubbish—maybe twenty metres at best—and the roads would be slick as ice.

Not ideal conditions for a high-speed pursuit, but then again, when was anything about this job ideal?

"CITY632. We're just at the edge of the Owens' property in Collinsvale," I reported to dispatch, peering through the front window and trying to discern anything useful through the curtain of rain. The world beyond the car was a grey blur of water and indistinct shapes, the kind of weather that made you question whether leaving the house that morning had been a sensible decision.

"Copy that, CITY632. The chopper has sight of the vehicles. They should be coming—"

The dispatcher's message cut off abruptly, drowned out by a sound like rolling thunder—except this wasn't thunder. Two vehicles screamed past us on the main road, heading in the direction of deeper Collinsvale, moving so fast they were barely more than blurs through the rain. They zoomed by with such tremendous speed and force that our stationary car was showered in a massive spray of water, the wave hitting us broadside and momentarily obscuring our view even further.

For a split second, the world was nothing but water and motion and the receding roar of high-powered engines pushed beyond their limits.

Then clarity returned, and with it, absolute certainty.

"Karl, that's them!" I exclaimed, my voice sharp with urgency as I pointed in the direction the cars had vanished. My heart kicked into a higher gear, adrenaline flooding my system with that particular cocktail of excitement and focus that came with active pursuit. This was it—the moment when everything became immediate and real and demanding of every bit of skill and attention we possessed.

Karl didn't hesitate. His foot slammed down on the accelerator, and the car lurched forward with barely-contained violence, rear wheels briefly spinning before catching and propelling us forward into the pursuit. The force of sudden acceleration threw me back against my seat, my hands instinctively grabbing for the dashboard and door handle for stability.

Karl turned the wheel sharply, following the path the speeding cars had taken, and for a heart-stopping moment, the car seemed to lose its battle with physics and traction. We slid sideways on the wet road surface, the back end swinging out in a way that would have been terrifying if I hadn't complete faith in Karl's driving abilities.

Then he corrected—smoothly, expertly, with the kind of precision that came from years of advanced driving training and actual field experience. What could have been a disastrous spin became a perfect power slide, the car rotating in a controlled arc before straightening out onto the main road, now facing the same direction as our targets.

I caught a smile flickering across Karl's face—brief, genuine, unguarded. It was the expression of a man in his element, handling a powerful machine with the kind of intuitive skill that made it seem effortless. For a moment, he wasn't the complicated partner I had messy feelings about, wasn't the man who'd struck me yesterday, wasn't the source of all my current emotional turmoil. He was just a bloody good driver doing what he did best.

My hand shot out towards the controls, activating the flashing red and blue lights mounted in the car's grille and dashboard. The siren started its distinctive wail, adding to the intensity of the situation—now there was no doubt we were in active pursuit, officially engaged with suspects who were clearly not interested in pulling over for a friendly chat.

The chase was truly on. My heart pounded in my chest with a rhythm that matched the engine's roar and the siren's scream, adrenaline coursing through my body and igniting every nerve with bursts of energy that made the pain in my hand and the pounding in my head fade into insignificant background noise.

This was what I'd needed—clear purpose, immediate action, split-second decisions that demanded total presence rather than dwelling on things I couldn't change.

I grabbed the radio again. "We have a visual. In pursuit now," I informed dispatch, my voice cutting through the cacophony of siren, engine, and wind howling past the car.

"Copy that, CITY632," the dispatcher responded promptly.

The patrol car's wipers continued their frantic battle against the relentless downpour, barely keeping the windscreen clear enough for Karl to see. Rain hammered against the metal and glass with a fury that seemed almost personal, as though the weather itself was determined to make this pursuit as difficult as possible. The world beyond our windows was reduced to indistinct shapes and the occasional flash of taillights ahead—our targets, weaving through the rain-soaked roads with reckless abandon.

Karl navigated a sharp corner at speeds that would have made a driving instructor weep, the tyres letting out a screeching protest as they fought for grip on the slick asphalt. The intensity of the pursuit was palpable in the confined space of the car—every decision critical, every move demanding total focus and split-second timing.

"Do we know who the drivers are?" Karl asked, his voice focused and intent, cutting through the roar of the engine and the howl of wind and rain. His eyes never left the road ahead, hands steady on the wheel, body language projecting complete concentration on the task at hand.

"Let's find out," I responded. I keyed the radio again, repeating Karl's question back to dispatch. "Do we have any ID on the drivers or vehicles?"

"Negative, CITY632. Are you able to get a visual on a number plate?" came the dispatcher's response.

I leaned forward in my seat, straining to see through the combination of rain, spray from the vehicles ahead, and our own windscreen's limited visibility. The wipers swept back and forth in their relentless rhythm, briefly clearing the glass before each downpour obscured it again. Karl was concentrating intensely, his gaze fixed on the vehicles ahead, navigating corners and straightaways with the kind of precision that required absolute attention.

"I can't make it out. Can you?" he asked, his voice tense with focus and probably frustration at the limited visibility.

I squinted, trying to penetrate the curtain of rain and spray. The vehicles ahead were maybe thirty metres distant, close enough to follow but not close enough to read details. "Me neither," I replied, forcing honesty despite wanting to have answers. "You'll have to get us a little closer, just watch out for the spray from the cars."

My initial rush of excitement was beginning to give way to a sense of caution, the reality of the danger we were in becoming increasingly apparent with each second that passed. High-speed pursuits were dangerous under the best conditions—add in torrential rain, poor visibility, and suspects willing to drive this recklessly through residential areas, and the risk factor multiplied exponentially. People died in situations like this—suspects, officers, innocent bystanders who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong moment.

But we couldn't just back off. That wasn't how this worked. These drivers had made their choice when they'd refused to stop for our lights and sirens. Now we had to see it through, had to try to bring them to a safe stop before someone got hurt.

Karl pressed down on the accelerator, closing the gap between us and the fleeing vehicles. The patrol car surged forward, engine roaring with barely-contained power. The road rose slightly ahead of us—just a gentle rise, barely noticeable under normal conditions—but at these speeds, it became a small jump.

"Shit Karl!" I cried out, my hands automatically bracing against the side window as the car went momentarily airborne. For a heart-stopping instant, we were flying rather than driving, the rear wheels losing contact with the road surface entirely. Then we came down with a jarring thump that I felt in every bone, the suspension compressing hard before bouncing back up.

Karl wrestled with the wheel, fighting to regain control as the rear end wanted to slide out again on landing. For a moment that felt like hours compressed into seconds, we skidded sideways, tyres struggling for purchase on the wet asphalt. Then he brought us back under control with a smooth correction that would have looked easy to an outside observer but required tremendous skill to execute.

"Well, did you get it?" Karl asked urgently, not taking his eyes off the road, presumably referring to whether I'd managed to catch the number plate during our closer approach.

"Yeah," I replied, relief and pride mixing in roughly equal measures. Despite the chaos of the moment, despite being briefly airborne and skidding, I'd managed to focus long enough to read the plate on the rear vehicle. Small victories. "I'm running it through the system now."

My fingers moved over the onboard computer mounted between our seats, typing in the registration number I'd glimpsed. The system would check it against the vehicle registration database, hopefully giving us information about who owned the car we were chasing and potentially why they were running.