Adventures of Quigley & McFinleyyy Chapter 7 – Helicopters & Heartbeats

 

Adventures of Quigley & McFinleyyy

Chapter 7 – Helicopters & Heartbeats

Miami at night was a jungle of neon. Streetlamps smeared into streaks of light as the Ferrari Testarossa screamed down Ocean Drive at 120, engine snarling like a caged tiger. Quigley’s hand gripped the wheel with surgical calm, cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke trailing into the humid air. Beside him, McFinleyyy cradled a shotgun between his knees like a prom date.

Behind them, headlights blazed—two cartel sedans, guns poking out of the windows, muzzle flashes lighting up the boulevard. And above it all, a police chopper thudded through the night sky, its searchlight cutting sharp beams across the palm-lined streets.

“Never thought I’d see the day the cops were our cavalry,” McFinleyyy muttered.
Quigley blew smoke and smirked. “Enjoy it. They’ll turn on us soon enough.”

The brunette leaned forward from the back seat, clutching Quigley’s shoulder, perfume sharp as cordite. “You’re insane. You’re all insane.”
Quigley kept his eyes on the road. “Welcome to Miami.”

The blonde fired a revolver out the window, sending sparks off the hood of the chasing sedan. She laughed, wild and beautiful under the neon glow. “I always wanted a ride-along!”

The police chopper dipped lower, loudspeaker barking commands. “This is Air One! Keep pressure on those cartel bastards—force them to the causeway!”

McFinleyyy racked his shotgun, grinning like a demon. “Finally, cops who speak my language.”

Quigley jerked the wheel, the Ferrari sliding into a screaming turn, tires burning rubber across asphalt. The pursuing sedans fishtailed, one slamming into a lamppost in a fireball of sparks. The other stayed locked in, relentless.

The brunette clutched her seatbelt, breath ragged. “You’re going to kill us all!”
Quigley’s voice was ice. “Then stop distracting the driver.”

McFinleyyy leaned out the passenger side, shotgun booming. Pellets shredded the cartel car’s windshield. The driver lost control, swerving into a fruit stand, crates of oranges exploding across the street in a burst of pulp and neon.

The helicopter’s spotlight followed the chaos, guiding them toward the causeway bridge over Biscayne Bay. Sirens wailed in the distance—black-and-whites running backup, for once chasing the bad guys instead of them.

On the bridge, the last cartel sedan gunned it, trying to overtake the Ferrari. The brunette screamed, clutching Quigley’s arm. The blonde leaned across McFinleyyy, aiming her revolver, hair whipping in the wind.

“Hold her steady, baby!” she shouted.
McFinleyyy laughed. “I am steady.”

The revolver cracked, and the cartel car’s front tire exploded. It fishtailed, slammed the barrier, and vaulted over the edge in a perfect arc. The car plunged into the black water below, headlights glowing like dying eyes before vanishing into the waves.

Silence—except for the Ferrari’s purr and the helicopter’s rotors overhead.

McFinleyyy let out a roar of triumph. “Hell of a date night!”
Quigley adjusted his rear-view mirror, expression flat. “Don’t get too excited. The night’s still young.”

The police chopper swept ahead, lighting the path back toward downtown. Over the radio, a gruff voice crackled: “Quigley. McFinleyyy. Nice work. But the Chief wants answers—now.”

Quigley killed his cigarette in the ashtray. “Of course he does. He always wants answers.”
The brunette leaned closer, lips brushing his ear. “What will you tell him?”
Quigley’s smile was razor-thin. “The truth. And then I’ll sell him the lie he really wants.”

The blonde kissed McFinleyyy’s cheek, blood still flecked across hers from the dockyard shootout. “You were amazing out there.”
McFinleyyy grinned, shotgun across his lap. “Baby, this is me on a quiet night.”

The Ferrari roared across the causeway, city skyline burning bright ahead. Neon reflected off the bay like liquid fire. The helicopter’s spotlight guided them like a halo—or a noose.

Quigley’s voice cut through the engine growl. “We’ve got a problem.”
McFinleyyy glanced over, smirk fading. “Only one?”
“They trust us now. Which means they’ll expect us to be heroes.”
McFinleyyy spat out the window. “Heroes don’t drive Ferraris with blood on the dash.”

The brunette’s laugh was sharp, almost cruel. “Then maybe you’re not cops anymore. Maybe you’re kings.”
The blonde leaned in, whispering. “Or devils.”

Quigley’s cigarette lighter clicked, flame sparking in the dark. He lit up, exhaled smoke into the wind, and let the Ferrari devour the night.

“Kings, devils, cops, killers—it’s all the same in this city. Just depends who writes the report.”

The helicopter shadowed them as they tore back toward Miami, the city ready to swallow them whole.

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