Free Highway to Vengeance: A Thomas Highway Thriller by Brian Springer

to the
intersection. The driver sped up and got through the intersection
just as the light switched over to red.
    I wasn’t so lucky. I was stuck two cars back
from the line, sitting there watching as the Cadillac continued
ahead.
    I tapped the steering wheel and waited
impatiently, my heart rate and frustration levels rising
incrementally with every passing second. I glanced back and forth
between the red light in front of me and the green one the next
intersection up, hoping that I wouldn’t lose sight of Alvarez’s
Cadillac.
    Fortunately, the light at the next street
turned red before Alvarez got through it, allowing me to catch up
without difficulty.
    My good fortune was short-lived however, as
two blocks later, edgy as ever with my recent near-failure still in
the forefront of my mind, I was so focused on keeping an eye on the
Cadillac and the pattern of the lights ahead that I failed to see a
Honda Civic in front of me slowing down to make a right turn into a
parking garage until it was almost too late.
    I slammed on the brakes and swerved into the
next lane, narrowly avoiding the Civic and earning a flurry of
honks from drivers in the adjacent lanes. I glanced back to make
sure that I hadn’t started a chain-reaction accident of my own, and
by the time I looked back at the road ahead, Alvarez’s Cadillac had
disappeared.
    I looked left, right, and left again. My
heart-rate spiked and I slammed my fist down on the steering wheel
and cursed aloud. It was impossible to overestimate how much I
hated this part of the job.
    Then I saw the Cadillac half a block ahead,
making a left turn onto Market Street. I barked out a relieved
laugh, glanced in my rearview, saw a little opening, and cut across
two lanes of traffic to continue the tail.
    Luckily the 163 freeway was less than two
blocks ahead. Alvarez’s Cadillac merged onto it and I followed.
Exhaling audibly, I allowed myself to relax a bit. Even I could
manage a decent tail on the freeway, especially during rush
hour.
    I followed them all the way to Alvarez’s
house; despite the internal security measures, it was not located
in a gated neighborhood.
    The Cadillac pulled into the driveway of an
immaculately adorned but subtle mansion. It proceeded through the
front gates of the property and towards the house beyond.
    I drove past without slowing down or casting
a glance in the direction of the house.
    I continued down the street until I came to
the next intersection. I made a left, then a right at the next
street, then two more rights, until I was back on Alvarez’s street
but the next block down. I made my way to the correct block and
parked as far down the street as I could while still being able to
see the front gate. I shut off the engine, threw WAVERING RADIANT
by ISIS into the CD player, and settled into my seat.
    I had been waiting for about an hour when I
noticed the front gate opening. One of Alvarez’s other cars—a
Jaguar XJ8—exited, and much to my chagrin, turned right, towards my
parking spot.
    I cursed under my breath and leaned over the
center console, pretending to search for something in the
passenger’s footwell. After counting to ten—figuring that was more
than enough time for Alvarez’s car to pass me at the speed it was
traveling, but not too much time that I’d miss which way it turned
at the intersection—I lifted my head back up to see the Jaguar
stopped in the middle of the street, directly to my right.
    The driver had turned his head and was
staring right at me, his face impassive yet somehow condescending
at the same time. He gave me a long look, then returned his gaze to
the road ahead and took off down the street.
    Fuck me. I had been made. Whether it had
happened while I was tailing Alvarez home or while I was sitting
outside the house, I had no idea. But it didn’t matter. There would
be no more following Alvarez on this afternoon, or ever again in
this car.
    It was just as well, anyway. As I had proven
on the way over here,