Time is money, and he just overspent.
By the time he’s realigned his car, we’re already tearing toward the opposite edge of the roof. Alejandro sees it now—the plan that didn’t exist thirty seconds ago but apparently exists now.
The end of the deck.
A tow truck parked there, its bed tilted down at a perfect angle.
His eyes widen.
He braces, grabbing the oh-shit handle with both hands.
I slam the accelerator.
“Ohshit!” He yells out.
We hit the ramp hard—metal clanging, the chassis protesting—but the truck does its job. The angled bed launches us upward, momentum catching like a fist under the ribs.
The car lifts.
Airborne.
We leave the building behind entirely, carried in an arc across open sky. Another rooftop rushes toward us—fast, too fast?—
And for a heartbeat, we’re weightless. Just four spinning wheels, a dead man, a furious man, and me, hurling through the night between two concrete worlds.
* Fuck
Alejandro is having a deeply spiritual moment of panic.
“¡Mierda! Carajo! Maldita sea—joder—puta madre—NO!”
Rough translation:
¡Mierda! — “Shit
Carajo! — “Fuck!” but angrier
Maldita sea! — “Goddammit!”
Joder! — “Fuck!” (with more Spanish flavor)
