Multiple doors slammed open one by one, methodical, getting closer.
Then came the bullets; a spray of automatic fire tearing through walls like they were paper. Wood splintered. Plaster exploded into dust.
They would reach where he was soon enough.
He looked out the window. He was on the second floor.
Aquila crept toward the window, his Beretta tight in his grip. His unbuttoned black shirt clung to his lean frame, damp with sweat.
He reached the window and peered through the gap in the curtains.
The street below was chaos; people running, cars abandoned at odd angles, sirens wailing in the distance. Latina's downtown had become a war zone, and he was right in the middle of it.
He saw the red light. His instincts screamed as he moved.
The window exploded.
Aquila threw himself sideways as glass showered across the room.
The sniper's bullet whizzed so close to his forehead he felt the displacement of air.
A perfect shot. Would've been, anyway.
"Cazzo," he muttered, then started laughing. The sound came out half-mad, adrenaline and disbelief mixing into something almost giddy. "You missed, stronzo!"
The footsteps were right outside the door now.
Cursing properly this time; a string of Italian profanity his mother would've slapped him for, Aquila backed up, took three running steps, and dove through the shattered window.
For a moment, he was flying. Then gravity resumed.
He hit the first-floor balcony hard, his left side taking the brunt of it. Something in his shoulder popped; a wet, grinding sensation that sent white-hot pain shooting down his arm. Dislocated. The Beretta skittered across the balcony tiles.
"Shit!" The word came out as a gasp.
Above him, louder shouts. A man's head appeared in the window, silhouetted against the room's interior light. The muzzle of an assault rifle followed.
Aquila didn't think. He rolled, grabbed his gun with his good hand, and threw himself over the balcony's edge.
His fingers caught the railing; his right hand only, the left arm useless and screaming and for a heartbeat he dangled there, feet kicking at nothing.
Then he let go.
The ground came up fast. He landed in a crouch that collapsed immediately into a sprawl, the impact rattling his teeth.
His dislocated shoulder shrieked in protest. But he was alive. He was moving.
The back of the house. He'd landed in the back. But already he could hear them; car engines revving, men shouting coordinates, the coordinated chaos of a manhunt converging on his position.
Aquila pushed himself up and ran.
His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, but they carried him to the corner. He pressed his back against the wall, chest heaving, and risked a glance around to the main street.
The black SUVs burst into view like angry beetles, scattering pedestrians. Three of them, maybe four.
People dove into doorways, screaming. One woman dropped her groceries, oranges rolling across the cobblestones.
Aquila's gaze swept the street and locked onto salvation; a red Ferrari, illegally parked with its hazards blinking. A guy in an expensive suit leaned against it, all white teeth and confident gestures as he talked to a blonde in a dress that probably cost as much as the car. The guy held the key fob in his hand, twirling it like a toy.
Perfect.
Aquila burst from the corner at a dead sprint. His dislocated arm swung uselessly at his side. The couple saw him coming, the girl's smile faltered first, then the guy's expression shifted from confusion to alarm.
Too late.
Aquila's forehead connected with the bridge of the guy's nose. The crack was audible even over the street noise. The man dropped like a puppet with cut strings, the key fob bouncing across the pavement.
The girl screamed and started beating Aquila with her handbag; a designer brand, heavy, probably had bricks in it. Each impact sent jolts through his injured shoulder.
"Go hit something else!" Aquila shoved her aside with the Beretta, not quite pointing it at her but making the threat clear enough. She stumbled backward, still screaming.
He snatched up the key fob. Behind him, tires squealed. He turned to see the SUVs spotting him, guns already emerging from windows.
The Ferrari's engine roared to life with a twist of the key. Aquila threw himself into the driver's seat as the first bullets sparked off the pavement.
He slammed it into gear and punched the accelerator.
The car leaped forward like a living thing. Aquila yanked the wheel hard right, then left, weaving through the narrow streets.
Behind him, the SUVs followed, but their bulk worked against them. They scraped against parked cars, clipped corners, fell behind.
One got close. Aquila saw it in the rearview mirror, its grille filling his vision. The driver was good; stayed on his tail through two turns. On the third, the SUV pulled alongside, trying to force him into a building.
Aquila saw the stairs ahead; a pedestrian passage, stone steps leading down between two buildings. Too narrow for the SUV. Maybe too narrow for the Ferrari.
He didn't hesitate.
The Ferrari launched off the top step. For a moment; again, that moment of flying and then the suspension screamed as they hit the stairs. People scattered, pressing themselves against the walls. Aquila's head cracked against the ceiling. His dislocated shoulder felt like it was being torn off.
Behind him, the SUV tried to follow. It hit the stairs wrong, nose first, and the laws of physics took over.
The vehicle flipped, landing upside down with a crunch of metal and glass.
Aquila caught a glimpse in his mirror; a man trying to drag himself from the wreckage, blood streaming down his face…..then the SUV exploded in a ball of orange flame.
"Cristo," Aquila breathed, shaking his head as he accelerated back onto the main street.
For maybe thirty seconds, he thought he'd made it.
The streets were clearing ahead, the sirens fading behind. He could ditch the Ferrari, find a doctor for his shoulder, disappear into…..
The SUV came from nowhere, shooting out of an intersecting street like it had been fired from a cannon.
Aquila had maybe half a second to see it coming; to see the driver's determined face, to recognize the raven tattoo on the man's neck visible through the windshield before it slammed into the Ferrari's side.
The world became noise and spinning. Metal screaming. Glass shattering. His head whipping sideways. Then darkness rushed up and swallowed everything.