“What happened to the Aston Martin?”

Chuck jerked his head at the ruined parapet of the parking deck and the rising plume of smoke.

“What does that mean?”, said James.

“It means we need to find transportation or die.” Chuck, crouching low, drew his Walther PPK and glided toward the stairwell.

“Move. Stairs.”

“But what are we supposed to do?” The petulant whine was getting worse. Chuck marveled at James’ ability to pout and slouch while still running for his life. They burst through the fire door on the ground floor and found a car rental agency, fully stocked.

Front wheel drive. Low center of gravity. “Ford.”

“No fucking way. I will not ride in a Ford!”, James hissed through clenched teeth.

British super-agent my ass. Chuck picked his way into the front seat and wired the car as James hesitated.

“In. NOW !”

The sharp report of a Glock ended the argument as James fell to ground from a single shot to the head.

Finally. Thank God. Chuck mashed the gas pedal and the nimble Ford shot forward.