Late at night, somewhere along one of the many roads in El Salvador, Central America, the roar of a Lancer 4G63T Evo VI engine—packing two hundred and eighty horsepower and modified enough to qualify for a rally competition—cut through the voice of Billy Idol singing "Rebel Yell". The song was played by the speakers of another car parked at a typical corner gas station, where a group of teenagers drank beer and smoked, defying society while diving deep into existential conversations.
The teens turned to watch a white Porsche Carrera 911, boasting three hundred and fifty horsepower and sporting two red racing stripes from hood to tail, fly by at top speed, chased closely by the blue Evo. The 911 took the corner with grace and precision, while the Evo drifted sharply, tires screeching loud enough to echo in the distance.
Once the cars disappeared, some of the teenagers, pumped with adrenaline, jumped into their own vehicles, revving their engines to join the race. That excitement faded quickly as police sirens closed in. What began as a street race soon turned into a high-speed chase, with two police pickups struggling to keep the sports cars in sight.
The scene of cheers quickly shifted to laughter and mockery directed at the officers.
"You pigs'll never catch 'em with those pieces of junk!" one kid shouted. Another flung an empty beer can in their direction, unconcerned about consequences. The pickups sped past without even a glance. That lack of reaction only fueled more laughter, and the teens went back to their night.
Inside the Evo, Naomi Wolf screamed when the car drifted again.
"Remy, slow down! You're taking those turns way too fast!"
She wore her seatbelt, but it didn't stop her from gripping the handles or bracing her pale hands on the dashboard.
"Quit whining. We're not even at the curves of Los Chorros yet," Remy Blue replied—her mission partner, the Evo's driver and owner.
Naomi couldn't help comparing the ride to a roller coaster. Remy drove like she was in a WRC rally, drifting through turns and weaving past clueless drivers with precision that left barely a hair's width.
The engine's roar, the tires' screech, and the smell of burning rubber filled the cabin, spiking Remy's adrenaline. Every vibration, every flaw in the road, every critical detail reached her senses. She reacted in split seconds, as if the car had become an extension of her body.
The 911 sliced through the corners with no trouble, revealing the driver's skill in a dance between curves and traffic.
Remy pulled up alongside it. In typical action-movie fashion, the passenger inside the 911 raised a gun—without bothering to roll down the window. The bullet pierced the glass.
Remy eased off the accelerator—not slamming the brakes, just enough to dodge the shot. Still, the bullet skimmed the Evo's windshield, leaving a mark.
"No, no, not my car. How dare you? This is personal now," Remy muttered.
"They shot first. They can't complain later," Naomi said, already drawing her weapon: a G19X pistol, modified with an under-barrel light, a laser sight, an extended mag, and fine-tuned balance. As always, she checked the chamber and flipped off the safety. "Ready, Remy?"
"Of course," Remy answered and wisper: "Deus vult".
Naomi climbed into the back seat, rolled down the window, aimed at the tires, and fired. The 911 lost control for a moment, but the driver recovered with impressive skill.
"What? No way. Remy!"
"I know," Remy replied. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the car, gently stroking the wheel.
She floored the accelerator, unleashing the Evo's full roar, and aligned herself with the 911's rear corner. With a swift, confident turn, she clipped its bumper to force a loss of traction.
The sound of skidding tires echoed violently as the 911 spun out. It tried to escape by going against traffic, but the police pickups somehow caught up and blocked its path.
Remy pulled a quick spin and crossed the Evo in front of the Porsche, boxing it in. Both women jumped out, using their car as cover, weapons drawn.
"Nice one, Remy. You killed it—total show!" Naomi shouted, high on adrenaline.
The Porsche's doors stayed shut. Then, a gunshot rang out. The driver's side swung open, and someone stumbled out with hands raised.
"Don't shoot! I'm a hostage! Don't kill me!"
"You believe that Remy?" Naomi asked, cigarette between her lips, gun still up.
"Get on the ground!" a cop yelled at the supposed hostage.
"What? Seriously? Naomi!" Remy snapped, seeing the cigarette. "You can't just light that now. That's a serious safety risk."
"It's fine. Not the first time," Naomi replied, blowing smoke through her nose and squinting her gray eyes. "By the way, love your new brown jacket. Matches your boots and those eyes of yours."
"Thanks," Remy blushed—then caught herself. Naomi never cared about fashion, much less compliments. Her usual outfits were sleeveless tees in gray, olive, or white, with a green military jacket, black leather, or biker gear. Always military or tactical pants, and never without her shoulder holster and G19X.
"Still. Don't light up like that again. It's dangerous."
She shook her head and exhaled sharply through her nose.
The cops approached and cuffed the driver. Then Naomi and Remy, bounty hunters by trade, moved in to claim their prize.
"This is a police matter. You need to leave," one officer ordered.
"Relax, kid," Naomi said. "You know we can't leave a scene until a supervisor arrives."
"She's right," came another voice.
"Bruno! Good to see you," Remy said warmly.
"Officer, let Miss Blue and her friend be," said Inspector Bruno Ventura. He extended his hand toward Naomi, asking for a cigarette. She obliged.
"What are my favorite redhead and raven-haired doing here?"
"Mind if I check the vehicle?" Remy asked. Bruno nodded.
"Heard the call on the radio, and since we were nearby, we joined in," Naomi explained. "Weren't you quitting smoking?"
"Yeah, but I never said I wouldn't carry one in my mouth. Habit, maybe." He walked toward the 911 with her, while the cops loaded the driver into their vehicle. "I remember telling you not to intercept police radio chatter. Let me see your weapon?"
"Why?"
"You want your payday or not? Or would you prefer… twenty-four hours in the tank?"
Naomi hesitated. The money pulled more than her pride. She'd jumped into this chase expecting a reward, and it looked like she'd get it. Prison time? Not appealing.
Bruno snatched the gun swiftly and fired a shot through the passenger window, aligning the trajectory with the windshield.
Remy hit the ground on instinct. Naomi tried not to look surprised.
What's this idiot doing? Naomi thought, regretting handing over the gun.
"Self-defense. That's how it'll read in the report. You see, the shattered glass shows the dead guy here," the inspector explained, pointing to the corpse—clean shot to the head. "The Evo's windshield has the bullet trace. Then you returned fire. Self-defense. After that, you hit the tire for a PIT maneuver. Right?"
He wiped his prints off the gun and handed it back.
"Correct, inspector," Naomi said, visibly uncomfortable… if not pissed off. She tried to hide it, but her eyes betrayed her.
She checked the weapon thoroughly before holstering it.
Bruno glanced at the body and shook his head. The guy looked barely eighteen. Wasted life over a stolen car and a supposed hostage.
Later, the investigation would reveal more. For now, they had to start the process. Bruno put on gloves, opened the car door, and searched the body.
"Shouldn't you wait for Forensics—" Remy started, but Naomi cut her off with a look. That was enough.
"You're right, Miss Blue," said Bruno. "But some things can't wait."
He pulled a Ziploc from the kid's inner pocket—joints of weed inside. Tucked it into his coat, then grabbed the wallet.
"Looks like our boy was a rookie. What do you two always say? No thief should carry ID."
"He's not from here… northern accent. Chilango. What's he doing in El Salvador?"
"Better question—why did he shoot himself?" Naomi asked.
"If he's with Las Grullas, the Crane Cartel, that makes sense," Remy added. "They'd rather die than get caught. I've heard their prisoners get sent back to northern empire prisons. Bad enough they'd rather die."
Remy's expression changed. She glanced at the car, then at Bruno, the body, back to the car, then Naomi, and Bruno again.
"Can I keep the car?"
"No," the inspector said firmly. "It's evidence. I suggest you leave. We'll call you if needed. I'll let you know if it goes to auction."
"Don't forget the pay, Bruno. You brought it up, not me," Naomi reminded him.
"Of course," he waved them off. "Expect a call to give your statement. And maybe a reward. Remember, it was all in self-defense."
"Bruno… say it," Naomi pushed.
"No."
"Fine. We're leaving."
Back in the Evo, Remy glanced at Naomi's cigarette.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Naomi tossed it out and stepped on it, then climbed in.
"What did you want him to say?"
"He lost a bet. I made him agree to say something to match the character. But you'll figure it out. Tell me, who's Bruno D.'s alter ego—the best detective ever?"
Remy shrugged.
"Come on, Remy, in Latin America Bruce W is called Bruno D."
Remy shook her head, snorted with laughter, and started the engine.
"I just can't picture Inspector Bruno saying it."
Naomi turned up the music. They drove off to the sound of "Breaking the Law" by Judas Priest.