January grabbed the microphone as she heard Voukovich in Nine answer. Damn, there goes the coffee. Why does everything have to happen in bunches? Sundays are supposed to be the quietest nights of the week.
“Five and Eleven, Ten Four,” January called in as Wilson turned on the emergency lights and accelerated towards Centennial. She cinched her seat belt tighter.
“KTR-Two-Eight-Three, Peter Six, north on Centennial crossing Twelfth, behind 1980 black Ford four door, Arizona plates covered with mud. Appears to be a woman driving.”
Jan bit her lip. Back off Thad. Wait for back up.
“Six, Seven is at Second and Centennial. I’ll block the bridge.”
“Twelve is north on Centennial crossing Nineteenth.”
“Peter Six, turning east on Ninth.”
Sergeant Wilson turned on the siren to cross Centennia
