It was night. There was light, but not much. Residential streetlights were weak and the lampposts spaced further apart than they might otherwise be in a business section of the city.
A tall, thin figure was gliding a skateboard down the hilly street. It was a guy in his mid-teens, dressed in jeans and a gray hooded-sweatshirt. Despite the dark clothing and the blackness surrounding him, he wasn't hard to see.
He was spotlit from behind by the headlights of a sedan, a Crown Vic, the sort of car that police drive. It was no more than half a block away, and closing in on him, when a shot exploded from the passenger's side of the car. The bullet missed the intended target. Metal, under the deck of his skateboard, sparked the asphalt as his wheels increased speed down the hill.
The car, plain black, had no official markings. There were no police lights on the roof, hidden in the dashboard behind the windshield, or folded away next to the side-view mirrors. Neither the man driving, nor the woman passenger was in police uniform, or even inspector-style suits. They were dressed in normal-people clothes. The passenger held a pistol from her position, hanging almost two feet out from the car window, aiming the matt-black barrel at her target in front. The car moved in closer.
Noise drifted up from the businesses, mostly restaurants and bars, just a block away. But there were no witnesses on the street here. It was quiet except for skateboard rattle, the car motor, and another explosion of fire delivered from the Crown Vic; that second shot missed too. The target remained standing on his skateboard, kicking wildly at the ground. The Crown Vic's engine roared out into the night. The distance between them was disappearing — fast.
The skater's eyes scanned the sides of the street. Parked cars lined both curbs. There was no break in the wall of metal, not even the opening to a driveway. There was just no access to the sidewalk from where he was on the street.
Inside the Crown Vic, the driver held his hands firmly against the steering wheel, in the classic 10/2 control position. The passenger no longer outside the car window had returned to her seat and secured her weapon. She braced her arms loosely against the dashboard. There was less than two feet of air between the back of the skater's legs and the front bumper of the car. The driver pressed his foot, hard, jamming the accelerator pedal flush to the floor.
The car tapped the back of the leg, then the other. The feet slipped. The deck of the skateboard moved out from under him. The underside of the Crown Vic tugged in at his body. He stumbled. The car motor yelled out with one final push.
Screams — as tires tried to grab onto a piece of the asphalt — penetrated the neighborhood. The skater fought for balance. The black Crown Vic, half a block away and across the intersection, plowed into a parked car.
The guy on the skateboard moved quickly away from the accident, and from the black Crown Vic, which had just passed right through him.
