the dashboard is littered with fast-food detritus and two coffees in styrofoam cups making fog circles on the windshield. a hand picks up one of the coffees and we follow it to a face, a forty-year-old cop face that's seen some wear and tear -- behind the wheel is matt sykes. beside him is his partner of nine years, bill tuggle. tuggle expertly munches on a slice of pizza as he talks.
sykes drives, heading for the biltmore hotel.
jetson doesn't respond.  some things are better left unaddressed. meanwhile, sykes has unwrapped his food and recoils in disgust.
as jetson races along the freeway, whipping past other traffic. he takes a hand off the wheel, reaches over and pops open the glovebox. he shoves some maps and garbage aside, reaches deeper inside for something -- we don't see what.
sykes' expression tells us he's slipped into the same juggernaut mode we saw during the foot chase in the alley.
jetson spots the police unit in the right hand lane ahead.
as the cars scream along, jetson cranes out the side window, looking in distress at the inky seawater flashing past below.
sykes sits stunned behind the wheel. disoriented but conscious, he raises his head, looks over.  sees jetson out cold, his forehead gashed and bleeding. then he looks over and sees the fire growing under the police unit's hood which is crunched up against the rear of the slug- mobile -- near the gas tank.