The speedometer crept over the 100 mark. Damn, these guys are fast, Nate thought. Well past 100 now. People weren't the only danger, though. The cliffs to his right were like a Niagra Falls made of stone, spilling over into the Pacific. The wheels were skidding dangerously, spewing rocks over the ledge. Suddenly, he noticed a face at the window. "Get off my car!" he yelled, swerving madly to try and throw them off. He heard cries of pain and surprise all around him, but could also hear the grunts of someone straining with effort. Someone who was still on the Jeep. His left window shattered, and he heard a curse. Then, there was the sound of a pistol cocking against his head. Nate suddenly had a thought, a thought that would inevitably kill him. He swung the wheel hard to the right, and the Jeep began to skid. Right off the cliff. "Really shoulda thought this through!" he yelled, and then there was nothing. No sound. Except for a far-off, keeing scream and the roar of the sea below. Y'know, this is actually kinda cool, thought Nate. I could use some peace and quiet.
Nate sipped the last dregs of wine out of his glass. A decent Cabernet, he decided, but scolded himself inwardly for not choosing a Merlot. "Souhaitez-vous prêt à payer maintenant, monsieur?" the waiter asked. Would you like to pay now, sir? Nate wasn't paying attention. He was staring at an African man in a suit, focusing on the funny bulge near his left pocket. And his face, which was turned directly towards his. "Oh, um, oui, bien sûr" "Bien, Je reviendrai avec le contrôle" Good, I'll come right back with the check. The gunman was advancing. "Non, non, je suis en retard pour quelque chose. Puis-je seulement le salaire,sil vous plaît, parce que je dois vraiment y aller!" No, no, I'm late for something. Can I please just pay now, because I really have to get going! He was less than a yard away. Nate pressed the fifty euros into the confused waiter's hand. He strode deliberately toward the gate of the restaurant. The gunman was wlking in the same pressed, deliberate form. Nate looked back, and saw the gleam of a silenced pistol in the man's hand. Nate could play the scene out in his head. He would screw something up, wander down an alley or dead end, where only the drunk and seedy of Paris lived. No one who witnessed his shooting would care, and no one who would care would know. A car backfired, and life goes on as it always did. Not so good. Nate broke into a run. Confused and angry shouts of Regarde où tu vas! or fils de pute! rained down on him, but he took no notice. They broke out of the quiet streets into a teeming intersection. Nate heard a muffled crack!, and saw a hole in the streetlight next to him. He tore across a crosswalk, getting angry honks, yells and gestures from the drivers. And then, as he had predicted, he screwed up. He ran blindy into an alley, pinning himself against a wall. Then, he noticed a pipe in the wall. He scampered up rapidly, bullets exploding all around him. And he was running across the rooftops of Paris, jumping over pipes and vaulting over chimneys. The killer didn't bother with a silencer now, and Nate could hear sharp cracks smashing through the air all around him. Nate suddenly skidded to a stop. There was a gap between the rowhouses, much too far to jump. The gunman was pointing the pistol straight at him, and he was slowly backing towards the edge. Then he heard a bang!, to loud and explosive to be a pistol. The killer fell, blood flowing from his chest. "Godammit, kid, I really can't leave you alone for a minute!"