As Jack chased after the suspect, he contemplated whether he should upgrade his driving skills for smaller vehicles to the master level. Ever since the system upgrade split driving skills into "small vehicles" and "large vehicles," he hadn't leveled up either of them, keeping one at proficient and the other at beginner level.
The progress bar for his proficient small-vehicle driving skill had barely moved. Jack suspected that ordinary driving wouldn't earn him any more experience at this stage—it might require some more extreme maneuvers.
It didn't have to be over-the-top stunts, but something like a high-speed chase might do the trick. Now that he'd saved up 25 system coins, he figured indulging a bit couldn't hurt. With that thought, he opened his system panel and leveled up his small-vehicle driving skill to master level.
What does "perfect control" mean? What does it mean to be one with the vehicle? Jack regretted not upgrading his driving skill sooner—it felt amazing.
As the tires screeched against the road, his "Mammoth," a vehicle larger than a typical pickup, handled with the agility of a cheetah sprinting across the plains under Jack's expert control.
It was just after noon, and although traffic wasn't heavy, the crafty taxi wasn't sticking to main roads, weaving through side streets instead.
Jack couldn't follow too closely since his car only had a temporary police light but no siren. Even though he was an FBI agent, it wasn't like they allowed agents to install such things on their personal vehicles. So he relied on the sirens of Tim and John's police cars behind him to signal other drivers to make way. Plus, there was no chance to execute a PIT maneuver on these narrow streets.
Keeping his speed around 50-55 mph, Jack clung to the yellow taxi like a stubborn piece of gum, while the LAPD police cars easily followed in his wake.
Soon, the sound of police helicopters whirred overhead, and the suspect finally turned onto a main road.
"Attention, the suspect's taxi is now heading eastbound on the 134 freeway, approaching the Colorado Street Bridge," came the report over the radio.
Jack couldn't afford to check the map; the side streets had too many potential hazards, requiring his full concentration at every intersection. The chase had only lasted ten minutes, but he'd already lost count of how many red lights he had blown through.
Luckily, JJ had taken over navigation from the passenger seat. Just as she finished her report, Tim's voice came through the radio, tinged with urgency. "We have to stop him—there are tourists all over the Colorado Street Bridge at this time."
Built in 1913, the Colorado Street Bridge was the tallest concrete bridge in the world at the time, with massive archways rising 150 feet high.
Thanks to the film La La Land, the bridge had become a romantic landmark of Los Angeles, with couples flocking there for photos. However, in the early 20th century, the bridge was notoriously known as the "suicide bridge," and anyone familiar with the Great Depression knew why so many people ended their lives there.
Jack glanced at the speedometer—he was already doing 100 mph (160 kph). If he pushed it any further, he'd have to pull off a move like Officer Alice from Arkansas, who PIT maneuvered a large pickup at 109 mph (175 kph), only to get launched by the rolling truck.
Remembering that the FBI still hadn't reimbursed him for the Raptor F-150 he wrecked last time, Jack gritted his teeth and floored the gas pedal.
With a stretch of empty road ahead, this was the moment. The suspect's Ford taxi didn't even have time to react before Jack's "Mammoth" appeared on its right side.
With a slight leftward jerk of the steering wheel, the reinforced bumper nudged the taxi's rear left wheel. The yellow Ford immediately spun out of control, its body skidding sideways.
Simultaneously, Jack straightened his wheel and slammed on the brakes, leaving two long, black skid marks on the rough pavement as the out-of-control taxi rolled over.
The Ford's body crumpled with each collision against the road, glass shattering, metal fragments flying off, and objects—including the unbelted suspect—being ejected from the vehicle.
The suspect, a large man, now looked like a helpless ragdoll, flung high into the air, only to plummet off the freeway into a drainage ditch below.
As Jack watched this unfold, he slowly brought the "Mammoth" to a stop on the roadside. Before the LAPD patrol cars, sirens still blaring, caught up to him, he turned to JJ, still in shock, and planted a kiss on her lips.
"See you at your place tonight."
Wiping his slightly sweaty hands on his pants, Jack opened the door and got out of the car, already thinking he should stash a few pairs of work gloves in the glove compartment. It might look a bit unrefined, but it would definitely be practical.
As he walked past the front of his car, he glanced back. The maneuver had been flawless—apart from a few scuff marks on the bumper, the "Mammoth" was unscathed. The 10 system coins had been well worth it.
Behind him, the LAPD cars had pulled up onto the shoulder, and officers quickly rushed toward the crash site. John, gun drawn, approached the overturned taxi, whose front wheels were still slowly spinning.
"Where's the suspect? Anyone see him?" John shouted as he glanced into the empty driver's seat.
"There, I saw him fly out of the car," JJ pointed toward the drainage ditch about ten meters away.
At that moment, a few LASD patrol cars also arrived, and the area was soon filled with the sound of blaring sirens. The FBI and LAPD officers made their way down to the roadside, where they quickly found the suspect's body. A little farther away, they found his severed head.
"Looks like we won't need an ambulance," Tim shrugged.
The suspect's head was face down, buried deep in the foul-smelling muck of the drainage ditch. After the photos were taken, a grim-faced John, along with two officers, struggled to retrieve it from the mud.
This is what happens when you don't wear a seatbelt. Crashes at high speeds are like falling from a great height, where even the smallest obstacle can turn a person's fragile body into pieces.
"At least he won't be chasing after any more women's scents," Jack thought as he looked at the suspect's head, with its nose and mouth completely clogged with mud, feeling no emotion.
When they had entered that chemical lab earlier, Jack had only caught a glimpse, but he was sure that the row of neatly arranged candles on the workbench weren't meant for emergency lighting.
The real action was about to begin. The protagonist was ready to venture into a broader world.
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