1
Jack did something unfathomable.
I never thought I’d see the day, but I guess he wanted a change of pace.
Our car situation left a little to be desired. The Devastator was in the impound lot in Pineapple Bay as part of a case. The Porsche was in the shop getting paint and body work. Not to mention driving a coupe in the Florida sunshine was starting to make Jack feel claustrophobic. It was almost illegal to drive anything other than a convertible in Coconut Key.
So he bought a Lamborghini.
A lime green Huracan EVO Spyder—640 hp of naturally aspirated goodness from a symphonic V-10. The last of its kind. The pure-bred engine propelled the car from zero to 60 in around three seconds.
The sound.
Oh my God, the sound.
A race car with a rocket strapped on the back. Stomp the gas, and the acceleration will peel your face off.
It was a completely different animal than the Porsche. Not better, not worse, just a different experience.
With its aggressive stance, sharp, angular lines, fat tires, and a cockpit that could make a fighter jet look outdated, this thing was otherworldly. I wouldn’t be surprised if the designers had access to alien technology.
The pre-loved car was in great shape, and Jack got a helluva a deal on it—thoughexotic Italian sports cars, andbang for the buck, don't really belong in the same sentence.
Jack pulled out of the dealer's lot with an ear-to-ear grin on his face. He beamed with joy like a kid on Christmas morning—the top down, the Florida sun beaming bright, that glorious exhaust singing.
That sensation of bliss lasted about 30 seconds, then…
BAM!
Metal crumpled and crinkled. Taillights shattered. The impact jolted us forward.
A stream of obscenities flew from Jack's mouth.
I didn't blame him.
We were both dazed for a second, trying to figure out what the hell happened.
"You alright?" I asked.
Jack nodded with a scowl on his face.
He climbed out of the car, rubbing his neck.
I followed.
Bits of carbon fiber littered the asphalt. The decklid, bumper, taillights, parking sensors, exhaust tips, and rear diffuser were all toast.
The white sedan that had plowed into the back of the Lamborghini was in terrible shape—headlights smashed, the hood buckled. Steam billowed from a cracked radiator.
The bumper on the Lambo cost more than the car that hit us.
I noticed something odd.
The windshield was speckled with blood, and a bullet had cratered the glass.
A panicked girl exited from the driver’s seat. Tears streamed down her twisted face as she glanced at the chaos. Then she craned her neck behind her, and her blonde hair twirled.
A black SUV screeched around the corner, and a thug hopped from the passenger seat with a Mac 10 in hand.
