Backseat Breaking Point: My First Vengeance Rush
The backseat of that unmarked car. Engine humming low. Jean at the wheel, steady. Me right next to this punk, Christopher, wrists cuffed tight. Air thick, stale. His cologne mixed with sweat. My pulse hammered in my ears. We’d nabbed him quick—wallet at the crime scene, scratches on his arms like Anna’s last fight. Little girl shredded in that vacant lot. Our neighbor’s kid. Seen her grow up, braids and giggles. Now meat. This rich-kid wannabe caïd confessed it all. Bragging. To prove he was tough. Against a fluette teen. My blood boiled slow at first. Fists clenched on my thighs. He kept mouthing off. BMWs. No license. Scooters for losers. Called his grandparents rats. Then her—a little pute, he spat. No turning back. Heart slamming chest. Breath short, hot. Excitement twisted in my gut, dark hunger rising. Unknown territory. First time not playing cop. Real justice. His eyes darted, cocky smirk. Mine locked on his smug face. Short beard, twitching. Rosée on the wallet still fresh in my mind. We weren’t real flics. Brothers in a thrift shop front. But for Anna? Gloves off. Car swerved city streets. Tension coiled tighter. Palms slick. His voice grated—gueulé when I lui ai… Boom. No more wait.
