“Oh s**t,” Herman spits. He wraps his hand around the ignition, turns the key while pounding the gas pedal. “s**t, s**t, s**t . . .”
The engine put-put-puts and strains. But it won’t turn over. He’s panicking, flooding the engine. I begin to laugh on the inside because he’s genuinely afraid and it’s a wonderful sight to see.
Miller shouts out a series of orders to his men, all of whom turn, begin crossing the street on foot, double-time. But Miller goes for his cruiser, jumps behind the wheel, shuts the door.
The cops are approaching the van, their pistols aimed for the van’s windshield and the creep behind the wheel.
“Start up, start up! You piece of Lu Chin s**t!” Herman cries, his right foot still pounding the gas. There comes a roar and the van comes to life. “Oh, thank you, God.
