In my life I have found several activities that should be avoided to guarantee a long and happy life. Most of them were discovered while I was in the midst of performing those activities. This case proved to be no exception. So let me state with some authority that if you are ever placed in a situation where you must choose between staying in a moving car with an unconscious driver or leaping from said moving car, you will not be living a long and happy life. You might have a promising career in being a smear on the highway, but there's really no room for advancement in that.
Faced with two undesirable options I chose the one that offered the greatest life expectancy. As the sedan sped a minimum of eighty miles an hour down the highway toward the guard rail and the abrupt lack of ground beyond, I forced my door open and propelled myself into the air. Like a carnival stuntman fired from a cannon, or their idol Gonzo the Great, I sailed through the air until gravity and the laws of physics forced me into a landing. I scraped along the asphalt, over the curb and into a nice soft patch of dirt filled with not so nice sharp rocks. Behind me I left a fair portion of skin and blood, and some tatters of denim and cloth from my clothes. I had landed on my right side but everything hurt like hell. I decided not to focus on assessing my injuries at the moment and instead paid attention to the sedan I had abruptly exited.
Two of Marcus Gioni's goons had been keeping me company in the soon to be airborne sedan. One, the driver, was slumped down in his seat unconscious from the force of the kick to his head I'd given him. His body weight was shifted just right so that his foot was apparently still pressing down on the accelerator. The other goon was trying to grab the wheel but kept losing his balance as the car swerved violently. He actually did manage to grab the wheel, but he turned it too far and the car, already going beyond the speeds most drivers can safely control, skidded too much and suffered a side impact with the guard rail that actually flipped the sedan over the rail without causing more than a large dent to the metal. The highway we had been on crossed over a busy road, and the drop was rather spectacular. I couldn't see the landing, but the crash was loud enough to make up for it. A few moments later I heard that unmistakeable sound of two automobiles colliding, and I new some unfortunate driver had been unable to move out of the way before it started raining sedans. His bad luck, but my good fortune; if the goons had somehow survived the fall the second car smashing into whatever was left from the sedan had surely killed them.
I heard the screech of tires coming to a sudden halt behind me. I half rolled, half flopped as I turned to look at the source of the noise. I had forgotten about the second sedan, this one filled with four more of Gioni's goons. Cursing whatever dieties chose to listen, I forced myself to take a quick assessment of my injuries. My head ached in complaint, but I quickly determined that I scraped a good portion of myself off on the highway and the whole right side of my body from the shoulder down stung horribly. My shoulder was radiating pain and didn't look right. I hoped that I had only dislocated it and not suffered worse, but with the speed that Gioni's goons would be upon me I didn't have the luxury of time needed to try and pop it back into place. My vision was off, though I couldn't quite figure out how, and I worried that I'd suffered a concussion. I stopped my assessment long enough to notice that Gioni's men were pulling guns. Knowing Gioni he'd outfitted them properly. Having a client who knows your weaknesses turn on you was a very unpleasant thing.
I forced myself to my knees with my left arm, then stumbled to a half-crouching, half-standing position as I swayed in place like a flower in a strong headwind. One of the goons was a poor shot and a bullet bounced a few feet off target, spraying me with dirt. That was all the incentive I needed and I began to run. Well, I ran as best I could, but whatever was wrong with my vision had thrown my balance and depth perception off and I would honestly have called it more like power-walking than running. Any form of locomotion was better than being an unmoving target and I kept trying to build more momentum. More bullets sprayed dirt around me and I took a moment to praise Gioni for getting his goons from an after-market mercenary source. Name brand goons would have already splattered my gray matter on the ground. Hell, quality goons would have simply ran me over with the car instead of stopping. And the more I focused on making bad jokes about Gioni's hired help the more likely they were to actually become accurate shots. I needed to put everything I had into building up speed, and beyond that I needed a place to retreat.
Trained instinct and keen perception allowed me to take stock of my surroundings as I ran. Not far away was the drop that had claimed the sedan I had lept from, behind me was the gaggle of guntoting goons, but the ground began a more gentle descent not far away, and beyond the steep hill I could see a concrete utility squatting below. Reaching the building was not beyond the realm of possibility, but it would not be an easy feat. I reached the beginning of the descent and paused to try and figure out the safest me to descend on my unsteady feet.
One of the goons got lucky.
Pain tore through my hip on my right side and I fell. I slammed into the earth, falling into a roll that brought me the speed I'd wanted but with the side effect of a rather bumpy ride the whole way down. On the bright side, I was no longer quite so attractive a target for the goons. They would have to stop at the top of the hill or risk taking a tumble themselves, and the longer they stood still at the top the greater the distance between us. They hadn't proved capable shots so long as I was moving and if I had any luck left to me they wouldn't spontaneously develop sniper-level marksman skills.
I reached the bottom of the hill and kept rolling, covering a better distance than I could have made running in my condition. The goons continued to waste ammunition by filling the air around me with lead, and adrenaline kicked in. I got my feet and was running before I knew what I had done. My injuries from leaping out of the sedan no longer hurt as much, and my head felt clearer. The healing was slow during the daylight, but it gave me the edge beyond that of mortal man, enough that I still had a chance of making it to safety. The building was forty yards away. Thirty. Twenty. Bullets came too close to me for comfort, but none struck me. Fifteen. Ten. Angry shouts behind me and a pause in the barking of gunfire alerted me that the goons were starting their own descent. Five.
I hit the door and bounced back. It was easier than slowing my momentum, even if it did drop me to the ground. The andrenaline was abandoning me now. I didn't have much time. I pulled myself back up and tried the door. Locked. I cursed in several languages, my favorite being in Italian, and I looked around for an alternative. I spied a ladder to the roof further down. It was suspended fairly high off the ground, probably requiring some sort of tool to hook onto it and disengage it so work could be done on the roof. I didn't have any kind of tool like that, so I was just going to have to try and jump.
If I'd been human I doubt I could have made it. As it was my injuries, and the fact that it was daytime, sapped enough of my strength that I was barely able to grab the bottom rung with one hand and hang there suspended in mid-air. I flailed about with my right hand to try and grab the rung and start hauling myself up, then I remembered that I had dislocated that shoulder. Gritting my teeth, I tightened my grip on the rung and started swaying there, building up my momentum before I slammed myself into the concrete wall in an attempt to pop my shoulder back into place. It didn't work, so I tried it again. And then again. A fourth time, and by now my left hand was getting sweaty and I was afraid that if I swung again I'd lose my grip and fall.
A bullet impacted with the wall a little to my left. At least one of the goons had reached the bottom of the hill and had decided to start shooting again. Out of time and out of options, I forced my right arm to reach for the next rung and held on as tight as I could, pulling myself up. It hurt - gods did it hurt! - but I managed it. I was now able to brace my knee on the bottom rung and managed to start pulling myself up the ladder. More bullets thudded into the wall and a fine white dust showered over me. I kept my concentration on pulling myself up. At the top of the ladder I swung myself onto the roof and kicked back against the ladder to push myself away from the edge, leaving the goons without a target.
I started to laugh to myself, knowing that they'd never make the jump up to the ladder. I doubted they'd pull off some sort of cheerleader's pyramid to let them reach the ladder. I had time to rest and recover. Not much, but something was better than nothing, and even with my natural healing slowed I would still take whatever I could get.
The sound of the ladder creaking and coming dislodged stopped my laughter. I must have jostled it too much when I kicked off against it. The ladder crashed into the ground. I stared at the edge of the roof in shock. Times had been tough lately, and I was beginning to think some higher power had it out for me.
The first of the goons crested the top of the roof and walked over to me, his swagger telling me that he was confidant that I was done for. I found it hard to argue with him as he put the gun to my temple.
Scopata, I thought to myself. It's Italian. Go look it up yourself.
