"Go! Go! Go!"
Carlson grabbed the case and jumped into the helicopter parked on the rooftop, his eyes fixed on the door to the roof's only access point as he shouted urgently at the pilot.
But to Carlson's fury, no matter how many times he shouted, the helicopter stayed right where it was, without the slightest response.
That only made Carlson more agitated:
"What the hell is wrong with you? Didn't you hear me? Get this damn helicopter into the air!!"
There was still no movement inside the cockpit, and Carlson felt his anger flare.
"Bastard!"
He cursed and hammered his fist against the cockpit door's window. "Damn it! Don't play mute with me!"
Bzzzt.
For some reason, the light above the pilot's seat flickered twice, then went out with a snap.
Sensing something was wrong, Carlson immediately peered warily through the glass, but there was nothing inside the cockpit except darkness.
"Damn it!"
He cursed and ducked to one side.
Quickly pulling out a handgun, Carlson ejected the magazine and checked it, then raised the gun and aimed at the cockpit.
Just then, a voice came from inside.
"Do you know where New York cops like to go most?" he asked.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Carlson fired, blasting several large holes through the cockpit window, but the cold voice continued. "They like going to bars."
"Do you know why?"
Sweat beaded on Carlson's forehead. The eerie voice that had suddenly come from the cockpit was enough to unnerve anyone.
The cockpit wasn't big, and the shots he had just fired should have killed anyone hiding inside. Yet they had clearly done nothing. Whoever was speaking remained comfortably inside, completely unaffected.
That eerie feeling left Carlson a little frightened.
His right hand trembled from gripping the gun too tightly.
"Are you