James Grippando - Born to Run

“I’ll go,” she said.

Demetri threw his arms around her and helped her up. Then, like a guy turning the doorknob in a gas station bathroom, he reluctantly reached inside Mika’s pants and grabbed the gun. He pitched the silencer aside and tucked the little.22-caliber pistol into his pocket.

Suddenly, sirens were blaring right outside the hotel.

“It may be too late,” said Sofia.

Demetri aimed his pistol at Jack’s face. “You’re coming, too.”

“Leave him,” said Sofia.

“He’s our ticket out.”

“I won’t be a kidnapper,” she said.

Demetri’s face flushed with anger. It was as if the pressure of the past two weeks, the stress of the past two days, and the events of the past two hours had finally come to a crescendo. All patience-even for Sofia-had run out.

“Then be a hostage,” he said as he pointed his gun at her.

“What?”

“Let’s go.”

Sofia was dumbstruck.

“Go on!” he said. “Move!”

Sofia obeyed, and the way his command sent her moving toward the busted French door reminded Jack of the battered wives he’d defended.

Demetri spotted Mika’s 9-millimeter pistol on the nightstand, did a quick check of the ammunition clip, and smiled like a man who’d just hit the daily double. He tucked the extra weapon into his other coat pocket, and then he grabbed Jack and took him out at gunpoint.

The narrow alley outside the hotel had been converted into a pedestrian walkway with vine-clad walls and colorful flower boxes adorning the windows. The streetlights resembled old-fashioned gas lamps, and the cobblestone path had just enough twists, turns, and depressions to remind Jack of old Sienna at midnight. Right around the corner, at the main entrance to the hotel, blue beacons from police cars swirled in the night. Demetri stopped.

“Where’s your car?” he asked Jack.

“My car?”

Demetri shoved the gun up under his chin. “Where is it?”

“In the parking lot behind my office.”

“Can we get to it the back way?”

Jack struggled. “You really want to take my new car?”

Demetri cocked his pistol.

“Follow me,” said Jack, and he led them down the narrow walkway.

“Faster,” said Demetri, even though Sofia was already struggling to keep up.

Jack picked up the pace to a near trot. They reached a T-intersection in the walkway, and Jack took them to the left. A paved parking lot opened up before them, and they stopped for Demetri to make sure there were no police.

“It’s the green Mustang,” said Jack.

Demetri almost smiled. Jack cringed.

“Keys,” said Demetri.

Reluctantly, Jack handed them over. Jack crammed himself into the tiny backseat, and Sofia rode shotgun. It was a bad time for Jack to discover that the rear seat belts were broken. Demetri fired the engine and raced toward the exit, gaining speed until another car pulled out and blocked his way. Demetri stood on the brake, and Jack slammed into the backside of the front seats as the Mustang screeched to a halt.

“Shit!” said Demetri.

Jack looked up in time to catch a glimpse of the other driver’s face, but it was Demetri who told the story.

“It’s him!” said Demetri.

He slammed the five-speed into reverse and steered backward with the intensity of an Indy racer.

“Slow down!” said Sofia.

“Hang on!” said Demetri.

Still in reverse, Demetri steered the speeding Mustang toward the walkway. Jack was still in the back, which meant that he was effectively in the front, as Demetri gunned it straight toward the narrow opening between buildings.

“It won’t fit!” said Jack.

“Will too,” said Demetri.

“My car!”

A quick glance at the speedometer nearly stopped Jack’s heart. Tail end first, the Mustang shot into the narrow walkway, its side mirrors brushing the leafy vines on either wall as they burrowed deeper and deeper into the darkness.

“Stop!” said Sofia.

Demetri pressed on. Jack spotted a pair of window boxes ahead. Behind. Whatever.

“Look out for-”

Too late. The rear fender took out the window boxes like a wrecking ball.

“Ouch,” said Jack, cringing. It was like a bad dream-his beautifully restored Bullitt Mustang in a “bass-ackward” chase scene, all with Jack at the mercy of a crazy son of a bitch who was no more Steve McQueen than the flat streets of Florida were the hills of San Francisco.

“Hold tight,” said Demetri.

They flew past the T-intersection in the walkway, the brick walls on either side a blackened blur in the night. Finally, the Mustang came out on the other side of the Hotel San Pietro and spun to a stop in the middle of a four-lane street. An SUV was about to T-bone them when Sofia screamed and a horn blasted. Demetri found a gear and hit the gas to speed out of the way.

Sofia reached over and slugged him. “You’re going to kill us!”

Demetri didn’t seem to care. In seconds he had the fastback in fifth gear, weaving in and out of urban traffic at double the speed limit.

“Red light!” said Jack.

Demetri blew through it, sending a crossing car into a screeching tailspin.

“You’re scaring me!” said Sofia.

He didn’t respond.

“Demetri, I’m too afraid.”

“This will work.”

“I don’t like this,” she said.

He kept driving.

“I don’t deserve this!”

Demetri hit the brakes, and the car skidded to a stop at the curb. Jack expected to see another temper flare, but Demetri didn’t look angry. Sofia’s last remark- I don’t deserve this- had simply resonated on a level that even Sofia could not have expected.

Demetri reached across her lap and opened the passenger-side door.

“Run!” he said.

“What?”

“It’s just like the first time. It’s me they really want. Run fast and disappear.”

Sofia looked at him for several long moments, her eyes welling. It seemed to Jack that she didn’t know how to say good-bye. Finally, she just turned away and got out of the car without a word. The door closed, and Demetri spun the tires.

“What now?” said Jack.

Demetri didn’t answer. The speedometer was quickly up to seventy.

“This is pointless,” said Jack. “You’ve got the Russian Mafiya after you. By your own admission, Madera’s men are out to kill you. And in about two minutes the police will be chasing you down. It’s over.”

“Ain’t over yet,” he said.

“What are you going to do?”

The tires squealed as Demetri made a sharp turn toward the expressway ramp.

“You and me are gonna talk to the president,” he said.

They were flying past cars as if traffic were standing still.

The speed limit on this stretch of interstate was seventy miles per hour, and Demetri was pushing well beyond that. Jack was about to tell him to slow down when a pair of motorcycles shot past them like silver bullets. The bikers weren’t wearing helmets, of course, and their girlfriends clung to them like frightened koalas as they maneuvered around cars with the precision of slalom skiers. For a second, Jack wondered if one of them was Theo. No such luck.

“You think we can catch those guys?” said Demetri.

“Before or after they kill themselves?” said Jack.

Demetri snorted. “You’re a funny guy, you know that?”

Jack’s hands were feeling numb. The cord around his wrists was too tight, and sitting in the cramped rear seat with his knees up to his chest and his hands behind his back didn’t help the circulation.

“You don’t actually plan to drive my car all the way to Washington, do you?” said Jack.