Jorge in the midst of the chaos.
JW’d fired. Mrado’d fired.
Nenad on the floor. The police crawling like ants. Despite that, the shot toward Nenad’d spooked them. Confused. Mrado’s shot at JW’d missed. JW on his feet. Unharmed. The cops’d stormed in at just the right moment to distract the Yugo.
Tear gas in the cold-storage facility.
Mrado shot wildly at the cops.
They took cover. Interrupted. Hollered commands. Made threats.
Jorge behind the packing crate.
JW next to Jorge, a box cutter in his hand. Cut off the tape around Jorge’s hands.
Jorge rose to his feet. They looked at each other.
Eyes stung like hell.
They ran toward the back door.
The cops clocked the situation too late. Focused on Mrado, who still had the gun in his hand.
Jorge unlocked the door.
He and JW ran out into a hallway.
No cops.
A fluorescent light was flickering farther down.
They fumbled around in confusion.
A ladder leaning against a wall.
Up.
They climbed toward the ceiling, a hatch.
Took the rungs three at a time.
Heard cops bursting into the hallway.
Jorge looked down. Opened the hatch. They yelled from below, “Freeze, police.” Jorge thought, Fuck you. J-boy’s been around the block and has some golden rules: Never stop. Give it hell. The pigs’ll se pierden.
They got up on the roof. The sheet metal was flat and gray-colored, as if it’d once been white. The sky was clear.
JW seemed out of breath. Still held the Glock in his hand. He probably didn’t have any bullets left. Jorge in better shape, despite the lack of exercise lately.
They ran across the roof.
JW seemed to have a direction. Took the lead.
Jorge yelled, “Where we goin’?”
JW replied, “There’s supposed to be a car, a Volkswagen, parked out front, by the flagpoles.”
Cop cocks poured out of the hatch in the roof, positioned themselves. Took up the chase.
Autotuned voice over a megaphone: “Stop where you are. Put your hands over your heads.”
JW raised his gun, pointed back toward the men. Idiot move.
Jorge heard the cops yelling, “He’s armed.”
He ran faster.
Breathed through his nose.
The smell of his own sweat.
Not stress. Just exertion.
No stress.
Continued over the roof.
The megaphone again.
JW held the Glock in his hand. Turned back to the cops. A sharp sound was heard. Was he the one who’d shot?
Shit—Jorge hadn’t thought he still had bullets left.
Another shot sounded.
JW fell. Grabbed his thigh.
What the fuck were the cops doing?
No time to think.
He rushed on alone.
Harmony in the runner’s stride.
Jorge with flow. Jorge with rhythm.
In a trance: All he knew was how to run.
Remembered his loops around the Österåker rec yard. Remembered his homespun rope tight over the wall.
Ran so fast.
Toward the edge of the roof.
Didn’t even look down.
Just jumped. True to habit.
Farther fall than from the Österåker and the Västerbron bridge.
A cracking sound in one of his feet.
He saw the Volkswagen.
Fuck the pain.
Limped up to it.
Broke the window. Opened the door.
The driver’s seat, covered in shards of glass.
He tore out the ignition wires from under the wheel.
He could hot-wire a car better than anyone.
The king.
The car started up.
Adiós, losers.