James Grippando - Born to Run

The Italians called him the Greek. The Greeks called him the Sicilian. He was from Nicosia. It was a funny coincidence that the largest city in his native Cyprus shared a name with a city in Sicily-the birthplace of his bride.

“Sofia,” he whispered in the darkness.

His wife of eleven months lay sleeping beneath a clingy cotton sheet, the gentle curve of her hip a silhouette in the shadows of night. A late-summer heat wave had sent them to bed naked, and like true newlyweds, they’d made the best of it. Cyprus was the mythological birthplace of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, who couldn’t have held a candle to Sofia. She was a classic Italian beauty, a strong and passionate woman with dark hair, captivating eyes, and flawless olive skin. The Greek felt lucky to have her, and he marveled that she loved him enough to leave her family and run all the way to Cyprus with him.

He only wished he could stop running.

“Sofia, did you hear that?”

Her head didn’t move from the pillow.

The Greek slowly slid out of bed, crossed the room in silence, and went to the open window. The lace curtains were motionless in the warm night air. He crooked his finger and parted the panels just enough to check the quiet street from his second-story apartment.

The cloak of night could hide centuries of decay, and Nicosia was beautiful in the moonlight. Flanked by the Pentadaktylos, the five-finger mountain, Nicosia was one of the oldest cities in the world, the geographic heart of an island paradise in the eastern Mediterranean. Behind thick sandstone walls, Cypriots had defended themselves from a host of invaders and occupiers dating back at least to the Byzantine Empire. The mid-twentieth century had proved to be another violent chapter, with five years of armed struggle finally bringing an end to more than eighty years of British rule. The Greek had taken no stake in that fight-which was why real Greeks called him the Sicilian (or worse)-but he’d grown accustomed to noisy nights, even gunshots.

It was purely instinct, but tonight the Greek felt another type of raid coming-one that had absolutely nothing to do with Greeks, Turks, or any of the country’s traditional ethnic divisions. He stood quietly at the lone window in their one-room apartment and listened. He was certain that he had heard something, and it took more than a cat on the roof to wake him from sleep after sex.

He walked around to the other side of the bed and sat on the edge of the lumpy mattress.

“Sofia, wake up.”

She grumbled and propped herself up on one elbow. Even at 3:00 A.M. she was beautiful, but she immediately sensed his concern.

“What is it?” she said.

He didn’t answer. He sat and listened for that noise again. There it was-a thumping that came from the first floor of their building.

“They’re coming!” he said in an urgent whisper. He sprang from the bed and quickly pulled on his underwear.

“Who’s coming?” said Sofia.

He pulled on his pants. The thumping noise was louder, like a herd of stallions charging up the stairs.

“It’s me they want, not you.”

“Who? Who? ”

“Listen to me. Don’t tell them I was here. Just say-tell them I left you.”

He kissed her before she could protest.

The loud bang on the door was definitely not a knock. Someone had put a shoulder into it. They were busting their way in. The Greek couldn’t find his shoes or his shirt, and there was no time to grab anything-except his gun in the top dresser drawer. He dived through the open window and out onto the balcony as the chain lock ripped from the frame and the apartment door crashed open.

He heard his wife scream.

“Sofia!” he shouted-which accomplished nothing, except to give himself away.

“Out the window!” a man yelled from inside the apartment.

The Greek could only run for it. He grabbed the rain gutter and pulled himself up to the second-story roof. His first step loosened an old barrel tile, and it crashed onto the street below. As he regained his footing, the Greek glanced back to see the lead man climbing up onto the roof behind him.

He was wearing a police uniform.

The Greek didn’t hesitate to shoot, the sound of Sofia’s scream replaying in his mind. The return gunfire told him that he’d missed-and the bullet ripped through his hand. He cried out in pain and dismay as his revolver flew from his grasp, slid down the roof, and landed in the gutter. Another shot shattered the clay roofing tiles at his feet.

The Greek kept running.

The slope of the roof changed from pitched to flat. He gained speed and jumped across the alley-the canyon between buildings-and landed on the neighbor’s roof. A quick glance over his shoulder didn’t slow him down a bit. Two-no, three-men in uniform were in pursuit. The Greek ran faster, his heart pounding in his chest. Beat after beat, the blood pumped from his wounded hand, leaving a crimson trail across the rooftops. He couldn’t stop running. At any moment, he expected a bullet in the back. They were close enough to take him out.

He leaped across another alley, and this time it took his breath away. The ground had gone from two stories to four stories below him. The buildings on his street had the same roofline, but they were built on the slope of a hill, each one of increasing height.

Too high to jump.

He raced across the rooftop, but the footfalls behind him grew louder. His hand didn’t hurt-too much adrenaline to feel pain-but the loss of blood was making him dizzy. No way could he outrun these guys. He had to find a safe place to jump down and hide. The roof pitched upward, however, and the only way down from here was through the men with the guns. He climbed even higher, all the way to the crest, where the roof flattened into a wide expanse. It was a big building, like a warehouse. No, a hotel. The Mykonos Hotel-the last building on the block. No rooftop beyond it. No more alleys to jump.

Nowhere to run.

He went all the way to the edge, and his heart was in his throat. Six stories up.

Shit!

“Turn around!”

The voice confirmed his fears. The man was speaking Italian. There was no point in resisting. The Greek turned to face justice.

The chase had left the men breathing just as heavily as the Greek, but their faces bore the unmistakable smirk of victory.

“On your knees,” the man said. His gun was aimed at the Greek’s chest.

Again, the Greek obliged. He was too dizzy and exhausted to resist, even if he’d wanted to put up a fight.

The two bigger men stepped toward him. One grabbed his right arm; the other, his left. The Greek was no longer standing under his own power. His feet raked across the rooftop as the men carried him to the building’s edge.

“What did you do to Sofia?”

The man with the gun went to him.

“What does it matter?” he said, and he spat in the Greek’s face.

“What do you want?”

The man shrugged. “Nothing.”

With a wave of his hand, the two bigger men tightened their grip, and the Greek felt his feet leave the rooftop.

It all happened in a flash, but the next few seconds seemed like an eternity, as the Greek was airborne, flying up into the night at first, the stars seemingly within his reach. Then gravity took over, and just as quickly he was a meteor tumbling out of control, spiraling down, down, down-headfirst, feetfirst, headfirst.

He didn’t hear himself scream, or the Sicilians laughing, as his body collided with the cobblestone below.