Getaway

Getaway
Armed men filled the streets, circling every block as they moved from door to door, letting themselves in as they yelled and beat up the residents who resisted.

Vittorio and Jim had already climbed up a thirteen-storey apartment building, going from door to door too, but no one opened. Jim even tried to flash his FBI card.

“Hello! FBI!” Jim banged again, his knuckles raw. “Please open up!”

A pause — then an old, frail voice from inside, trembling, “Please… no. Go away.”

Jim’s patience cracked. “Hey, grandpa, open up! We just need somewhere to lay low. You’ll be rewarded by the government.”

Silence.

He clenched his teeth and slammed the door again. “Open the goddamn door or I’ll break it down myself and beat your wrinkled ass up!”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Vittorio said, his tone even, almost soft. He moved to the next door, twisting handles one by one, testing them gently like he was trying to wake the building instead of break into it.

Jim groaned, sliding down the wall. “I swear to God, I regret coming back for you.”

“i'm sure you do,” Vittorio murmured. Then — a click.

A door gave way. Jim’s eyes widened. Without a thought, he pushed past Vittorio and rushed in.

The bark hit first. Deep, violent, and too close, A Rottweiler lunged towards him— a blur of muscle and teeth. It caught Jim’s arm before he could react, the growl drowning his scream as blood splattered across the floor.

Moments later, the dog was tied up, its muzzle sealed with duct tape as it writhed on the tile.

“Do you think we’re safe here?” he asked, wrapping a floral blouse around his bleeding arm.

Vittorio didn’t answer at first. He just walked to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out a plate of sandwiches. “No,” he said finally.

“Christ,” Jim muttered, peeking through the curtains. “They’re everywhere.”

Vittorio placed the sandwich on a saucer and slid it into the microwave. The hum was low but it filled the silence.

“I hate how calm you are,” Jim said.

Vittorio took the sandwich, sat on the couch, and ate it like it was breakfast.

Minutes passed. Outside, the noise grew closer — boots, shouting, the slam of doors one floor at a time. Jim froze by the window, his eyes wide. “They’re right below us,” he whispered. “What do we do?”

“Through the window,” Vittorio said.

Jim ran to it. Cold air rushed in — ten stories high, balconies stacked like ribs. He stared down. “You’ve gotta be kidding me—”

The banging started. One floor down. Then next door. The bark of orders echoing throuythe halls

Vittorio was already halfway out. “Move,” he said.

Jim followed, breath shaking as they climbed down from balcony to balcony, shoes scraping concrete, hands blistering against railings. The door above them broke open with sounds sharp as a gunshot, the voices heading towards their direction.

They dropped at the last few floors, hitting the ground hard and the shouts came right after.

"Laggiù"
Down there. One of the men up shouted.

Then — gunfire.

They sprinted. Down the narrow alley, through the open street. Bullets shattering glasses behind them, but they didn't stop, nor did they slow down. They dodged, ducked and jumped, evading the bullets like they knew where it they were coming from.

A car waited at the curb — engine off, driver alone, window up. Vittorio didn’t hesitate. He picked up a brick from the curb and smashed the glass with a brick, dragged the man out, and slammed the same brick across his face. The crack was wet, blood spilling across the pavement.

Jim flinched. “What the fuck, man?!”

“Get in,” Vittorio said. “I’m driving.”

Jim ran to the other side and vittorio entered before the pursuers could catch up to them.

Tires screeched and the car shot forward, bullets clanging off its frame as black vans poured into the street behind them.

“You still think we’re getting out of this?!” Jim yelled over the roar.

Vittorio said nothing, he kept his jaw locked and eyes set on the road as he sped through the city.

The back window exploded. The sound of metal bullets tearing holes through the car. The steering wheel trembled under Vittorio’s grip, and for a quick second you could see the struggle on his face as he tried to keep the car on the road. He swayed the car, from left sidewalk to the right, clearing off stalls and stands, avoid open junctions where he could be intersected. But they kept firing, nonstop.
The rear tires blew, sparks spraying the asphalt.

“Vito—?!!” Jim yelled, head below the window as he stared at vittorio's calm face.

He didn’t answer. He turned sharply, eyes fixed ahead. The road curved around a hill — steep, grass slick, the kind that promised death if you missed the angle. Vittorio didn’t hesitate. He went straight through the railing, and they went down. The freefall was rough, the car couldn't stay on its wheels for a second.

Vittorio opened his door midair and jumped out., and Jim saw it too, flying out without hesitation.

They tumbled, rolling through grass and dirt, no dust to accompany them down the heel. But even with the wet soil, each, roll on the ground felt like they were being crushed by an hydraulic press.

The car hit a tree, and the bumper flew off, the engine bursting into flames.

Jim laid on his back, lungs burning. “Haah— I think I broke all my ribs.” Above them, voices shouted again.

Vittorio stood, limping, not saying a word.

Jim forced himself up, grunting with every breath, and followed. They ran until the world changed, until the sound of guns and men was replaced by city noise, by people, by the indifferent hum of life.

\---

At the phone booth, Vittorio made a quick call. Jim stood nearby, bent over, holding his ribs, his face pale and bleeding, his nose broken from the fall and his bleeding arm from dog bite.

Too much damage for one day he thought to himself

“I’ve sent for someone to pick you up too,” Vittorio said, stepping out of the booth. His limp was worse now, but his tone stayed even. “Sorry for dragging you into this. But I still want my guy by eight this evening. The Genovese Manor.”

A black jeep pulled up beside him. Vittorio got in.

Jim didn’t say a word — he just nodded, to
o drained to speak. Another car stopped for him, and he climbed in slowly, breathing through his pain.