"Schnitzel, again?" Captain Krug protests as he loads up his tray in the Autobahnpolizei station cafeteria. Another reminder that, no matter what they show you on television, police work is monotony mixed with boredom served with soggy cabbage. At least one thing's changed. They've given him an unmarked BMW 5er wagon to tool around in.

Patrolling the Autobahn sounds glamorous but these days most of it has regulated speed limits and the rest is jammed with idiot tourists. Captain Krug oversees a chunk of pavement between Gräfelfing to the Austrian border filled mostly with the latter, which means the job is less about chasing down punks and more about standing by as road crews scrape bits of Czech playboy and Gumpert into separate bins.


It's a common misconception that you can't get pulled over on the 'Bahn. People call it the Wild West of driving. The same people who forget that there were laws in the Wild West, and men tasked with the job of enforcing them. Men like Krug.

He's no super cop. He's no gunslinger. He's gotta gut caused by too much drunk, which itself was caused by the divorce, which if he's honest with himself goes back to too much drunk. But he's not blaming anyone. No use. At 50 he's getting a little old for the job, which is why they maybe gave him the station wagon and not, say, a new X6 M.

Pulling into traffic no one pays him any mind. Cops in wagons aren't new to Germany, but there's something about this new BMW that screams "I'm no threat to you." It looks almost friendly. Doesn't matter to Krug, his version of "patrolling" today is driving to a little French bakery outside of Penzberg for a crepe.

And then he sees something. His hair is graying, but his senses are still as keen as the day he joined the force. His heart starts to race, his ears isolate the sound of an engine revving way too high. All this happens before Krug even consciously registers any of this.


The first sign something is awry is when Krug realizes he's now gone from a lazy 9-and-3 to a serious 10-and-2. His grip on the steering wheel improves. He looks in the mirror and his eyes widen.

It takes a lot to get Krug to look twice at a speeder. He's seen it all. But this is different.


Just then a bright orange Supra goes hyperspace in front of him. Krug's at a steady clip of 150 kph, but this asshole passes him at least 200 kph. Even worse, he's weaving in and out of traffic like a Lithuanian at his first Oktoberfest.

"Gatebiller," Krug mumbles to himself. Another Norwegian piece of shit who gets his jollies trying to kill someone in his little quiet corner of Germany.


Not today. He slaps the cherry on the roof as his fat fingers fumble around the iDrive looking for the command to turn the system on. At this point he's not sure what he hates more, the multimedia interface or the reindeer fucker in the Toyota.

Eyes dart from the road to the dash. He almost hits a Seat Ibiza driving too slow, completely oblivious to the police chase going on around him.


The BMW's pressed to its limits as the little orange dot on the horizon starts to grow bigger. He knows he shouldn't chase. There are cameras everywhere. He can call in a bird.

Not today.

Construction ahead. The Supra's forced to slow down as he plots a path around traffic. Suddenly Krug's on his back bumper when he finds the switch. The wagon lights up like the gay Berlin disco his son took him to the last time he visited. The last time he'll ever visit.


Krug can just imagine the look on the Scandi hard-on's face as he goes spoetzle-dick. They exchange a glance in the shiny Japanese rocket's rearview.

"You gonna run?" Krug wonders.

Wastgates start popping like bullets as the twin-turbo Supra spools up and takes off down the shoulder. Krug slams on the accelerator, seeing just how much of that 400 lb-ft of torque he can squeeze out of the three-liter diesel.


He knows he doesn't have the speed or the power to match the Toyota, but he's got the experience. The Supra stays to the main highway, which makes a giant semi-circle around the town ahead. Krug's taking the train.

Or, at least, the train tracks. As the Supra goes around Krug is going through, the BMW just narrow enough to fit between the two sets of siding tracks that meet at the trellis on the south side of the road. He estimates it'll take the Supra 50 seconds to make it around and it'll take him 40 seconds to cross through.


He darts across three lanes of 'Bahn and hits the dirt road, the BMW's suspension taking the blow as he crosses the first set of trucks. He calculates the odds of a train meeting him around the corner. Pretty low.

A few seconds pass and jumps the next set of tracks. He takes a deep breath.

No train.

He lands the BMW on the ground, drifting its heavy ass down the ramp and into oncoming traffic. Supra boy doesn't see it coming. Probably because he's looking in his mirrors. A last second overcorrection and the Toyota's upside down sliding towards a little roadside eatery.


Krug floors it again, this time trying to head-off the Supra before it slides into the front door. He just makes it, denting the hatch but not doing much damage.

Hanging upside down in a three-point racing harness, the suspect is disoriented but seems unharmed.


"It's not your day, son" Krug says in a clipped refrain, doing his best Dirty Harry.

Just then a round-faced frau waddles from the restaurant.

"You saved us!" she screams. "Let me prepare you a plate."

"What's the special?" Krug asks.


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