He didn't care about the nuance of the situation. He cared about submission. He flipped on his lights not the siren just the silent spinning blue and red bars that announced his authority. He accelerated cutting through the mid-morning traffic with aggressive ease. As he approached the gas station his adrenaline spiked.
This was the part he loved the hunt. Meanwhile at pump four Marcus Thornee was wrapping up his call. Yes, tell the councilman I'll have the draft on his desk by noon. Thorne said his voice calm and baritone. And have Janet call the pump repair service for this station.
Their systems are antiquated. He hung up and looked at the pump screen. It still read processing. He sighed checking his watch. He was going to be late for a meeting with the mayor if this didn't resolve in the next 3 minutes.
He decided he would go back inside get his refund and go to the station down the block. He had no idea that a predator was turning into the lot hungry for a conflict. Vincent pulled the cruiser into the gas station lot at speed the tires crunching over loose gravel. He didn't park in a designated spot. He pulled directly in front of Thorne's Mercedes blocking him in the nose of the police Interceptor mere inches from the bumper of the luxury sedan.
It was a power move designed to intimidate, designed to say, "You are trapped." Vincent stepped out of the car. He didn't adjust his hat. He didn't check his surroundings. He adjusted his gun belt, hitching it up, and walked straight toward the man in the suit.
He didn't see a city director. He saw a target. Officer Vincent marched across the 10 ft of pavement separating him from Marcus Thorne with the posture of a bar brawler. His thumbs were hooked near his belt buckle, his chest puffed out, his sunglasses hiding eyes that were already narrowed in judgment. Thorne looked up from the pump screen, startled not by the officer's presence, but by the aggressive proximity.