The piercing, high-pitched shriek of heavy tires locking against hot asphalt echoed across the concrete. A massive, black and white Chevrolet Tahoe police interceptor swerved recklessly into the lot, its red and blue lights flashing frantically. The SUV didn't bother finding a parking spot; it skidded to a violent halt diagonally across the lanes, mere feet from the tow crane. The driver's side door flew open before the heavy vehicle had even finished settling on its suspension.
Out of the Tahoe lunged the Police Captain. He was a man in his mid-fifties, his face flushed a dangerous shade of crimson, his silver hair catching the relentless daylight. He didn't walk; he sprinted across the blacktop, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps.
The Captain’s wide, terrified eyes darted from the magnificent black Toyota Tundra hanging precariously in the air, down to the young, confused rookie standing below it. The veteran officer's mind was racing, entirely consumed by the catastrophic scale of the mistake unfolding before him. He closed the distance in seconds.