Oracle

 Our car tumbled across the street. The wheels bounced and scraped against the road. The engine spluttered and the axles clicked as they spun. Every little shift of weight made the frame squeak and creak like it was screaming.

"We've got to find a new ride." Cal was driving, his hands lightly gripping the mouldy wheel. "This piece of shit isn't going to last much longer. It's bringing us too much attention anyway."

He was right. Our sagging lump of rust looked distinctly out of place grinding along the streets of Miami. The other cars weren't all perfect, but our little monstrosity was earning us one to many side glances from commuters.

"You kicking it isn't helping." Cal complained. For the last half hour, I had entertained myself by alternating between slamming the sole of my foot against the floor and bashing my toe against the glove compartment. The two impacts formed a percussive rhythm that fascinated my tired and bored mind.

With some difficulty, I stopped bouncing my leg and tried to sit up. My spine immediately began to compact itself, my eyelids reaching for each other. I had been awake for around twenty-four straight hours, after a harrowing police chase and a fistfight with a random asshole. My body was sensing that I wasn't in the direct line of fire and was desperate to use the opportunity to rest.

But we were in much more danger than my tired brain cared about. Cal and I had been tracking a target for the last few weeks; a frequent customer of a high-profile illegal weapons dealer and a money laundering service. His name was written on both of their informal records as Martin Kerler.

Kerler's loose trail had pointed us in the general direction of Miami, so we had followed it. We didn't have a legitimate plan, but we were sure Kerler was well-connected enough to have lookouts. If any of his men saw the infamous pair of vigilantes, he would know before we realized we'd been spotted. All we had to do was act as bait and hang fire until he showed himself.

We had ways to fight. Since our first few encounters, I realized that it would be useful to have a weapon that wouldn't kill, but could still match our enemies' guns. I spent a few weeks fabricating them: a pair of dark handguns, fitted with slightly altered paintball magazines. Another week was spent developing the ammunition, tiny balls filled with a powerful neurotoxin that I'd been studying in college. It was originally intended for heavy-duty anaesthesia, but it did well as a tranquilizer. Cal and I now carried a pair of guns each; our preferred lethal firearm, and my contraption.

But if Kerler did know we were here, he seemed to be playing the long con. We'd been driving for hours, with me fighting between exhaustion and vigilance. Our trash car was on the verge of collapse, and Cal seemed tense enough to try something desperate.

As I was lost in my semi-conscious musings, a blast of gray slammed into my head.

The click of a bolt sliding against wood. A figure bent over an open windowsill. Cool wind running along the outstretched barrel of a sniper rifle. Eyes dilating as they glared into a scope.

A bullet crashing into the hood of our car. The world flipping around us. Fire blooming out of the ruined engine. Glass slicing our skin and metal crushing our bodies. A single yell of surprise, drowned out by the scream of the bullet.

I hurtled back into reality. Cal was watching me, dimly aware that I just had a vision. He started to ask what about, but I cut him off.

"Sniper!" I lunged for the wheel and hurled it sideways. Our car spun to the left, the wheels groaning at the sudden stress. Cal grabbed the wheel back and tried to regain control, but it was too late. The hood burst through the glass front of a store, the jagged bumper mauling a duo of mannequins.