The roar of the engine is thunderous, a whole-body thrumming that rattles every bone in my body. Adrenaline whips through my veins as the cruiser whips around the serpentine road, tires squealing and burning the asphalt.

The radio crackles to life.

"Officers on the pursuit, call suspect vehicle was last seen heading east-bound past the medical centre, requesting units to head up. Suspect is in a red Mustang-"

I gun the engine, now pushing a breakneck eighty.

Static flares.

"-supervisor wants a quadrant set up east to the suspect-"

City lights rush by in a whirling kaleidoscope of color. Car horns blare in shrieking cacophony as I swerve deftly around civilians and parked vehicles.

More radio static, and then:

"Roger that, dispatch. I have four units with me; we'll form a static quadrant southeast of his location-"

The suspect comes into my field of view; he reaches through the open window of his Mustang and flashes me the middle finger.

Because - even though I've stormed into armed criminal fortresses, held fractured skulls together, tackled men to the ground halfway through beating their children to death, stared into the eyes of death and down the barrel of a gun too many times to count, pulled people from burning buildings, cut car doors off to free trapped crash survivors, watched my brothers and sisters drop like flies on the job - I'm quaking in my boots at the display of toughness from this big bad guy.

I roll my eyes.

Flooring it, I start tailing him.

"There he is; I see him," I radio in. "Control five-sixteen. Driver spotted me... Yeah, he's not stopping. Code three."

I drop it after that. It's a breakneck pursuit, navigating the busy New York night traffic with senses sharpened by the adrenaline. The earsplitting wail of the blaring sirens is deafening, lights sending off bright shocks of red in the dark.

The radio crackles again.

"Guy just whipped past me; I'm on him."

The dispatcher comes on.

"Upper east and west districts, please be advised, we've got a ten-fifty suspect southbound, now near Central Park - all units in the vicinity please respond-"

"-some backup, ten-eighteen-"

Car horns blare; people jump out of the rogue driver's way as I tear down 110th street.

Car tires grind to a squealing halt; metal screams, sparks fly. I swear under my breath, deftly maneuvering the cruiser around the battered vehicle. Tires crunch against asphalt, churning up debris, spinning back onto the road.

"Suspect just hit a parked vehicle on 59th, continuing south," I report grimly. "Looked like a 2000 model red Volvo."

"Attention all units, pursuit condition is still three; I repeat, condition three. Please update situation-"

"Ten-four," I mutter, focused intently on the maniac in front of me. "Still on him, no change."

"I've lost the vehicle. Repeat, vehicle lost."

"I got him, stand by," I affirm. "I'm gonna try and stay with him..."

More squad cars close in on the suspect, sirens wailing and lights ablaze.

Suddenly, a gunshot fires over the roaring car engines - then another. Screaming. More car horns. The suspect's got a handgun pointed out the driver's side window.

"Shots fired-"

"I need more backup, driver's giving us trouble-"

"Block this lane - slow this guy down - stand by-"

"Cutting through the park now," I yell over the noise. "I'm being shot at-"

The dispatcher comes back on with a crackle of static.

"Units be advised, containment is to include immediate areas an-"

Bang. Bang bang. More gunshots, drowning the dispatcher out.

"Bring this guy down-"

"Just lost my visual."

I swear loudly when a bullet whizzes past the driver's side of my cruiser, just nicking my mirror.

Whipping out my handgun, I fire three shots in rapid succession through the windshield, aiming for his tires. The car swerves and I turn on a dime in hot pursuit, debris flying everywhere.

"Back on top of him," I bite out. "Heading northbound on Eighth, trying to catch up-"

"Members be advised, suspect last seen heading north on Eighth Avenue, consider call still code three."

"I got it covered, stand by."

The shrill whine of the rumbler siren and blinding sweep of lights intensifies as backup flanks me. I'm still shooting at the car, my windshield now cracked in several places, but it's not stopping.

"Block him - block him-"

"Stop the car," I yell over the PA. "Pull it over now!"

Yelling from the driver is indistinguishable over the echoing sirens.

"Last call, pull over-"

"Pull over - pull over now," my reinforcements shout. "Now!"

"Fuck off, motherfuckers!" His muted cry is irate.

Well, I expected no more courtesy than that from a gentleman who I'll be putting away for one of the longest rap sheets in history. Criminal trespass times two. Resist times four. PI times eleven. DOC OWI times two. Intimidation. Domestic battery. A&B. ADW. Among a plethora of other convictions he's been racking up. Suffice it to say, this isn't the first time we've had to issue an APB for him.

"Be advised, shots are being fired-"

"They hit the radiator; it's overheating."

His engine's done.

The driver suddenly slams on the breaks in the middle of the road, his car lurching to a shrieking halt. There's the sickening squeal of tires against asphalt, a burning smell as we all screech to a lurching stop, cruisers surrounding the Mustang.

"NYPD, get out of the car. Get out!"

Car horns blare; people rush out of the way.

"Out of the car, hands above your head!"

The driver's door slams open.

Like a bullet released from a pistol, I burst out of my car into the strobing lights, running towards the perp with my gun drawn. Heavy footfalls descend, echoing against the pavement behind me.

"Lethal," I instruct the other officers.

Sirens are still blaring from the squad cars parked at odd angles blocking off the road.

The guy jumps out with his revolver trained on me. Pedestrians scream and scramble to take cover.

"Put it down," I roar. "Put it down!"

"Make me, motherfucker," he snarls back.

"Put it down," my fellow squad mates shout, backing me up. More footsteps. I don't have to turn to know that they're flanking me with guns drawn, cocked at the suspect.

"No, fuck off!"

"Put it down! Come on, man!"

"No!"

"Put it down!"

"Now," I yell, "drop it! Do it now!"

The back-and-forth yelling match continues, intensifying. Until, suddenly, the man spins around and makes a break for it.

I tear after him, feet pounding against the cement, heart in my throat, gun still trained on him in an iron grip.

"Five-sixteen, foot pursuit, eastbound!"

I dodge street vendors and civilians, erratic shouts and screaming and car horns blending into a dissonant backdrop to my staccato breaths.

The adrenaline-fuelled foot chase lasts only another minute before I overtake him.

"Get down on the ground!"

I hurl myself at the suspect, tackling him to the sidewalk. The impact is jarring; I land with a painful thud. I hear nothing but groaning and grunting and panting. The man beneath me struggles, swearing profusely. I'm lying directly on top of him, pinning him down with my weight.

"Drop the gun, now!"

"Let go of me!"

"Face down! Face down!"

We're wrestling now, rolling each other over. He lodges a punch in my gut, which he's looking at an additional charge or two for.

"Fucker, get the fuck off me-"

Yeah, run your fucking mouth, I think, grabbing his hands and forcing them over his head, pinning them there. Next time you're just getting prongs.

"Show me your hands, show me your hands!" Guns are cocked, levelled at the man. Officers circle around us.

I rip the gun out of his grasp and push it out of reach, but he seizes the opportunity to break an arm free. Another punch, this time to my chest.

"Put your hands up," another officer shouts roughly.

With a resigned groan, the man lifts onto his knees. He's done for, and he knows it.

"Keep your hands where I can see 'em."

His arms come up, and I shove him back onto the ground, flipping him neatly over. "Get on your stomach." I twist his arms securely behind his back. He's cussing me out the entire time as I cuff his hands together.

A quick pat-down confirms he isn't carrying any other weapons on his person. Another officer is already checking his vehicle.

"There you go."

I give the man his Miranda's rights as I snap the cuffs shut.

"You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions," I recite. The other officers lower their guns, helping me pull him to his feet. "Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to us and to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. If you decide to answer questions now without an attorney present, you will still have the right to stop answering at any time until you talk to an attorney. You understand?"

He nods. Quiet. Very smart.

"Awesome."

I radio in to dispatch as the others set to work bundling the man into my cruiser.

"Alright, we're code four," I call out. "Control five-sixteen."

Beep.

"Five-sixteen, go ahead."

"We were able to make an apprehension, got him in custody..."

Finally. When we arrested him last, Ron told the reporters clambering for a glimpse of him being escorted to jail that he would give a hundred million dollars to whoever would get him out of jail. It was on national news for every criminal, gang member, and hitter in the country to hear. The transportation bus taking him to Rikers was assaulted by two suspects armed with AK-47s in an attempt to break the detainee out of jail. This time, we'll have SWAT escort him to federal prison.

As soon as I can, I break away from the turmoil and wrench open the back door of the perp's car.

What looks to be a one-year-old baby regards me through teary eyes from a rear-facing child safety seat. He's strapped in snugly, unharmed. I check him over before undoing the straps on the car seat.

My heart gives out and shatters inside my chest.

"Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God."

I tuck him against my chest, his head immediately lolling against my shoulder. I pat his back and rock him, folding him snug and secure against my body. He mewls quietly. Oh my God, the bastard. Oh my God. I shot at this vehicle. I shot at it, and he knew there was a baby in the back seat and he didn't pull over. I didn't know. There was no All units be advised, there is a child in the vehicle; use extreme caution. Nobody knew. Except the piece of crap driver. Never mind why we were chasing him in the first place. This is worse than the wife-beating and other assault and battery charges. This has me livid-

"Hey! Hey! Get back here!"

I hand the baby off to the nearest officer and race back to the scene, where the perp is fleeing and Jackson is chasing after him.

I turn my back for one minute!

"Beast, I'm so sorry-" the new recruit cowers away, hands raised defensively as he pleads with me. "He said the cuffs were too tight, wanted me to readjust them-" He won't last long in this job, I can tell.

Ignoring him, I take off after my convict.

Not only is this guy, Ron, well known by the PD and wanted for a slew of charges, but he's managed to flee and elude us before. We've been looking for him for a long time. Every second he's not in custody, lives are endangered.

Today we got a call that tipped us off. We arrived on the scene within minutes, lights blazing and sirens wailing. Ron was just taking off in his car. He made contact with me a couple times during the pursuit, NASCAR style. And I had him. I had him, handed matters off to another officer for once in my life to investigate something, and ended up sorely regretting it. And now, once again, one of the most dangerous convicts we've put away, is on the streets.

I radio Jackson, who's in his unit up ahead.

"Do you have a visual?"

"We lost sight of him."

The chase quickly grinds to a dead end outside a house. His car is parked in the middle of the road, but officers say they know which house they saw our guy run into. Non-coincidentally, there are five guys stationed outside it like guards, one of which I recognize from a previous capture. He's a fun one. Oh, I can tell this is gonna be fun. No one's gonna comply.

"Go less lethal," I order over radio.

The officers who remained behind to drive the cruisers pull up to the scene and flank us, immediately exiting their vehicles. We circle the group of men around the house with our weapons drawn.

"Hands! Hands!"

The ex-convict's eyes widen comically when he sees me.

"I know you," I say.

"That's all in the past! That's all in the past! I-I don't do drugs anymore!"

He immediately tries to flee.

"Lay him out," I order the closest officer.

He's seized and instantly starts whining about me like a pussy. He eyes me balefully as he confides to my partner:

"I-I don't want that officer to come near me..."

"Reagan, Ken, somebody, where's my cruiser," I bark out.

Ken steps up beside me, his chocolate skin slick with sweat.

"We drove it up here."

"Good. I've got some toys in there that I reserve for the wife-beating, baby-killing scum of the earth and those that defend them."

"What do you want us to do with this one?"

"Just cuff him for now."

"Alright, I'm gonna be honest with you guys." I step up to the men staunchly guarding the building. "We're hunting, straight up. You're harbouring someone we want. We just wanna do a little knock 'n' pop over at his residence, take him into custody."

"You can't be here; this is private property," one of the men tries.

"Actually, I can be on this property if I goddamn feel like it."

"He's not here," a pale, lanky dude with greasy, black hair spits. The other men square up, trying to intimidate me.

Contrary to popular belief down at the county jail, I'm actually normally quite nice. But now that I found that baby in the back seat, it's a fucking wrap on all of these guys, that's it.

"I will find my fugitive," I say darkly. "And you're about to end up in some trouble if you don't let me do my job."

"We're tryn' a tell you, bro," another one pipes up, shaking his head. "He ain't here. He cut, man."

"Mhm," I nod gravely. "Now you're gonna back the fuck up."

I start advancing towards the house, and the men spring into action. They start stalking towards me, cutting off my progress.

"You're gonna back up," I intone patiently. "You're gonna back up. You're gonna back up. Back out of my face."

"Why don't you back up?"

"I'm not backing up for shit," I smile.

"See? You're the aggressor here. You won't back up and let us go-"

"Oh, lucky for you, I am letting you go. You can fuck off right here" - I jab my hand to the right - "you can fuck off right there" - to the left - "you can fuck off this way, that way, any which way you like. But if you refuse to leave, then rather than have you interfering with my investigation, I'm going to get some answers out of you."

"Tell us where he is," Ken presses, pulling up beside me again. His brow is crumpled in a glare of intimidation that brooks no nonsense.

"We don't know."

"You don't know; that doesn't really fucking help me."

"I'm telling you, we. Don't. Know."

"Sorry, you're telling me you wanna catch a felony charge for harbouring a fugitive? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Fuck jail, you wanna catch Beast over there?" Ken drawls.

"We don't know where he went, but he ran."

"You're fixing to go to jail," I tell him, tapping my boot against the ground.

Silence.

I'm getting fucking tired and they're trying my waning patience. It's been a long day with a heartbreaking development. They're testing the wrong man.

"Ken, my toys."

People are gathering at the sidelines, neighbours, pedestrians, curious onlookers and passerby. It's for their safety too that I intend to bring this to a quick finish.

My toys are handed to me one by one.

"Now, look, gentlemen. I don't necessarily want to get tickled by a daisy or whatever you've got in your pockets, but either way I'm going to search this property."

"Be careful, babe!" One of the onlookers appears to be the girlfriend of one of the idiots.

"We haven't done anything wrong," the cocky one defends. "You're not doing shit to us."

"So far you've got harbouring. Aiding and abetting a wanted fugitive. Two year felony. You gonna keep talking yourself into cuffs or are you gonna let me get my fugitive? Because let me be very clear. We're gonna leave here with somebody. It's gonna be him or you lot. Somebody's going to jail."

"He's not here, we already told you." Defiant, cocky little shit stares at me tauntingly.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah? Just you going to jail?"

"We - I don't-"

"I gave you two options. Either tell me the truth. Or leave in handcuffs with us."

"Fuck you."

"Fuck me why? Why won't you tell me where he is?"

"Fuck you."

"You know what, boys, I'm not really in the fucking mood to play right now," I sigh, growing impatient. "So here's how this is gonna go down. I'm going to get my fugitive. I'm gonna subpoena all of you. You're gonna show you up for the court case, you're gonna work with the prosecutor and DA. Or. You're going to continue to make this difficult for me, and you'll be in a whole world of fucking shit. Now, your buddy, he's wanted for something like fifteen felony warrants. If you wanna jump on that train, by all means jump on that fucking train. But understand this. Should you choose not to cooperate, you are going to get fucked up, point blank, do you understand?" I finger my taser holster with one hand and pat my baton with the other. "Make sense? I'm gonna fuck your day up. So now that we've had this heart to heart-"

"He knows his rights," girlfriend calls to my left. "Stop harassing-"

"I'm going to come over and harass you in a second if you don't stop interfering with our investigation, snowflake," Ken snaps back.

My best friend having stolen the words from my mouth, I turn back to the men.

"Gentlemen, you wanna go in handcuffs or you wanna be nice? You pick."

"Fuck you."

"Okay, thank you."

That's a legitimate option, even through I was really trying to avoid the hassle of filling out a Use of Force incident.

"Everyone back away, please." I lean my chin down to speak into my radio and update control. "Control five-sixteen." I explain to dispatch that I've got some goofy fucking assholes here harbouring the suspect and that I'm gonna fuck shit up here in one second.

I train my taser on tattoos.

"Lie down on your stomach."

Nothing.

"Don't fuck with me today, man, I'm having a bad fucking day. You want the smoke or you wanna lie down?"

Nothing.

I sigh.

"I will let it go in you. You wanna ride the lightening?"

Tattoos whips a switchblade out of his pocket. I instantly tighten my grip on the taser.

"Don't fucking move or I will light you up," I roar.

"Don't fucking come near me and I won't have to use this."

"Try it. Quick way to hit the ground."

I jab it briefly at the dirty ground. "You see all this dog shit? Your face will be planted in it."

Fucking hell, so help me, God. It is never like this. I never need to have this back-and-forth with a perp. I come on the scene, read them their Miranda's, and take them off the scene. Clean as that. This right here is a waste of my time-

Tattoos lunges towards me.

"Taser taser taser!"

I deploy my taser, and he crumples to the ground.

"Get down on the ground," I instruct all of them. "Down to your chest. Like that, on your stomach."

They comply this time. "Hands out to your side, all of you."

"Check them," I instruct the other officers. Tattoos looks at me daringly and I wave my taser gun at him. "I'm gonna pop you again," I threaten. Meanwhile, I radio in. "Five-sixteen. Taser deployed. We have five prone down." And a fuck-fest.

When all the men are secured in cuffs, I instruct them to roll onto their side and stand up. Pat-downs commence.

Reinforcements are arriving as we work, for the main perp still in the house. "I'm detaining you for right now." I turn my mic back on. "Five-sixteen, we're gonna have five detained."

Tattoos starts struggling, and I yank him back.

"You resist, you get tap tased. Are we all clear on what's going on? Resist a little bit and I'm putting it in."

"Why are you detaining me?"

Why the fuck do you think, bro?

I sigh inwardly. It didn't have to be like this. We were so close to having our guy - but now that he's barricaded in the house, he has access to any number and kind of firearms. Conditions are Hazmat. The last thing we want to do is go inside willy-nilly. Agents are milling around the property, shining beams in through the windows.

"Dogs inside, at least one person inside," dispatch alerts.

"Copy. Any answer on callback?"

"Negative on an answer."

"Copy that."

I turn to tattoos, waving my taser at him.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know," he retorts.

"Really? That's your answer? Think reeeaaalllly carefully about that, considering there could be a nine millimetre at your face any second now."

By this point, we've got a sexy LenCo BearCat, takedown team, K-9 unit, and swarm of police cars all around the building. We've even got a chopper watching the building, containment team to the north, primary arrest team to the south, and we're communicating with whoever's inside the house over PA.

Leaving the clowns, I go back to the cruiser. The other officers and I talk with Lieutenant Tanner in low voices. Back in my cruiser, I get on the PA.

"Everybody inside, make yourself known! Do it now!"

"We have your house surrounded."

"NYPD, if you're inside, make yourself known now!"

"Do it now!"

Nobody responds, so I get some more toys out of my car and use the rifle to shut the door. We're also masking up, in case he has pepper spray or worse. That's the trouble with a criminal barricaded inside his own home. He could have access to anything. He has a home advantage, and the element of surprise.

The guy who doesn't do drugs anymore shies away like a skittering deer when I pass him. His buddies fight against their restraints.

"No," tattoos snarls, "you're not coming in the house."

I push past him, whipping my baton out with a snap as I march to the door.

"That's about exactly what we're ready to do."

I've consulted with everyone about our strategy. We've given the man a chance to come out with his hands up. He's going to get only a few more before we start wrecking.

"Okay, if he doesn't respond, we're gonna do a breach and hold on the front door of the house," I mutter. "Jackson, grab the break-in rake, halligan, axe ram. Preston, post up right here."

"NYPD, warrant! NYPD, warrant!" I bark, banging on the door with the baton.

No response. This dude's really trying my patience. I can't stop seeing his baby son in my mind's eye. I am done playing nice with this guy.

"Rake and break on the back living room door too," I instruct.

The entry team gets into position. I'm prepared for instant pandemonium to break out. If the perp doesn't cooperate, I'll incapacitate him with a less lethal round.

"Beast," Jackson hands me the ram. The front door entry team readies behind me. Back and upstairs teams are behind them. The ladder team is poised to launch on the upstairs window.

"Breach. Breach. Breach," I count down.

The door collapses in a shower of debris.

We storm the building.