Damn I love a good chase. It gets the heart pounding like nothing else, and that’s something you usually have to pay for. When I was a young pup, earning my badges, I dodged the chase as much as I could. Hell, I’d do anything to avoid drumming my pulse over sixty; sweating like a Merc in the slow lane. My dad would preach about fight or flight, and I always took the easy option because I thought it kept you alive longer. Later, I realised it meant you were never alive at all.
The old ticker’s thumping so hard I can feel it throbbing in my chest and pulsing through my veins right out of my boots. I fly out the back door of the casino and dash down the alleyway, swing like a maypole braid around the corner and duck left into the shadow alleys. Corner shops and kitchens with blacked-out wind
