Headlights flashed brightly on a deserted street. A red Maserati GranTurismo tore through the lane, 40 mph over the speed limit. Staff Sergeant Michael Kahale's knuckles trembled on the wheel with every heavy pant. His vision focused on random things, flickering from the dark shadows of the trees to the dusky reflection of the review mirrors. The dashboard told that it was 1:12 A.M. Outside, beasts howled in their hunt, and a car was tailing him. His hands shook as he fumbled for his cell phone and dialed a number.

"Come on, come on. Pick up!"

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Um, h-hello?" A groggy voice asked.

"Annabeth!"

"Michael, is that you? What's wrong, your voice..."

"Annabeth, help them!"

"Where are you? What's going on?"

"I'm in D.C., and I don't have time. I trust you. Just don't blame-"

The driver cursed as the sports car plowed over the curb.

"Michael? You're not making sense. What's happening?"

"I'm-"

Tires screeching cut him off. A gunshot.

The red Maserati crashed into a lamp post. The airbags deployed but were destroyed and joined the wreckage. The cell phone tumbled on the passenger seat, and blood sprinkled on its screen. A car zoomed away.

"Michael, what was that? Michael? Michael!"