Crown Vic: The Second Kill

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
The second part in a series

Submitted: August 12, 2014

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Submitted: August 12, 2014

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Hillary didn’t care that the rain had finally stopped or that no one could tell from the way the mist sprayed up from each car that passed the gas station where she worked. Heading on their way to destinations unknown. All Hillary cared about at this moment was that it was quitting time. Unfortunately for the nineteen year-old blonde, with curves in all the right places, that uncaring nature that she loved so much as was her motto to live by was going to come back and bite her on the proverbial ass. And not the way she liked from her on again, off again boyfriend‘s way of doing it either.

He watched it all transpire in silence of the rain spotted windshield as Hillary quickly gathered her things; saying something to the man that relieved her before jetting out to the old, beat up Toyota Celica that He knew to be hers. He yawned and cracked his neck as he checked his watch. Noticing that they were actually ahead of schedule by four minutes.

Headlights flipped up almost immediately as Hillary disappeared inside her car. Only to pull away from its perch as sudden. Merging into traffic.

A smile crossed his lips as the Crown Vic roared to life. Pulling out of the small greasy spoon where he was parked, merging in behind Hillary. He wasn’t worried that she would somehow spot him. Little did she know that this was in fact their third meeting.  

The Celica’s flasher started doing it’s intended job as Hillary approached the four way stop sign. A lone blinking red light hung from a wire in the middle of the intersection. Swaying in the wind.

He pulled up to the turning lane just as the Celica made the left turn, and watched as the vehicle accelerate down the road toward town. Losing sight as it rounded the bend. He wondered where she was going this time. On their three previous engagements Hillary had gone to different places at the end of her shift as money changer. All men. Where she would spend anywhere from an hour to all night before going to the trailer park off of Route 19 which must have been home.

But He figured that it did not matter this time around.

Tonight Hillary would only be making one stop. His.

He grabbed from the floor a revolving red light, no different from the ones that unmarked police cruisers carried, as the V8 quickly caught up to the Celica. He placed the light on the dash then looked down to see how fast they were traveling.

“Seventy two in a fifty five. Shame, shame on you.”

He reached over and flipped the switch. The red light began to sweep back and forth quickly.

The trick worked as he knew it would --as it had in the past. Hillary’s brake lights glowed in front of him. Then He followed her as she pulled to the side of the road.

“Ah... hi, officer.” Hillary smiled as she undid the top most button of her shirt. She’s been down this route before. Knew the routine when it came to getting out of tickets. Most cops liked to see a little skin. A little flash of the nipple maybe. And while this probably pissed off most women, Hillary was okay with it. Having zero problems of using any asset she had to get out of paying for things.

“Miss,” He tried to control his voice, to keep it as flat and neutral as he could. He did not want to give away the excitement he was feeling, “do you know how fast you were going?”

“Ah, no officer,” Hillary subtly pulled on of top of her shirt as she spoke, revealing an even more ample amount of cleavage. “But I prom--

A red flower made of blood and bone and gore bloomed over Hillary’s face as the .45 caliber hollow point bullet struck her just under the left eye. Punching through her cheekbone past the eardrum and out the back. Taking a fair amount of brain along with it before it lodged in the passenger side door frame. Hillary slowly fell backward into the car. Where her one good eye stared unseeingly up at the ceiling of the Celica from her wrecked face.


© Copyright 2019 Paul Dabrowski. All rights reserved.

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