Their engines revved furiously. A red Corvette and a black Jaguar shuddering side-by-side, like two rabid dogs ready to enter a fighting ring. The Corvette had a stylized decal of a phoenix along the side. The Jaguar had several stripes along the roof and trunk, beginning at a white, ghostly image of a tree on the hood.

There was no one driving either car. They simply sat there, revving and lurching, in the poorly lit parking garage. Johannes’s body was illuminated by the high beams streaming forth from the cars’ headlights. Johannes raised his hand to his face and squinted, trying to see…anything.

The cars didn’t give him the chance. Their brakes let loose, they flew forward, swerving slightly away from each other, then sideswiping each other when they reached Johannes. Then the cars fly through the wall, and the image on the camera crackles. All that remains is the red mess along the garage floor, trailing from the site of collision to the wall where the two cars seemingly dispersed like exhaust.

The camera reveals nothing more about Johannes Burk. Only a photo ID and several passports in his name. No other records, no finger prints, no history. Just him, a wallet, and a mess that somebody has to clean up. “I guess that’s me,” I think aloud. I sigh and pick up the mop.