Vincent darted across an open street, bullets dotting places along the clothing hanging from a thin wire above where he was meant to die. But he had eluded death once more, of course for how long he wasn't sure. He cocked a sub-machine gun in his hands silently, checking to make sure the safety was off and that it was not jammed, before signaling to the three men trailing him that he was going on alone. His only support was a handful of sweaty Puerto Ricans, who he had paid a decent amount of money to make sure he didn't get his ass handed to him on a platter.
The bastard moved on, ducked low, towards an enclave of stone; another lovely feature of a grimy Puerto Rican barrio. Making sure no one was keeping their sites on him other than who he had previously assessed, Vincent made his way up a small flight of stairs which lead to the roof-tops of mentioned grimy Puerto Rican barrio. Still keeping low, Vincent moved as quickly as he possibly could across the roof-top, trying to find a way off in to the streets below.
He quickly rolled to the roof floor behind a small cluster of crates, most likely filled with illegal narcotics or weaponry. A bullet, presumably from a Sniper Rifle, had grazed his right temple. Vincent's eyes darted back and forth along the roof-tops and cliff nearby, seeking out his latest assailant. His eyes locked on to a slight glimmer in a crevice along the face of the cliff; the scope of a Sniper Rifle in the hot afternoon sun. He steadied his aim on the man, and let loose several bullets from his sub-machine gun, though they all ineffectively missed him before he scooted up against the wall.
Cursing, Vincent did a re-cap: he and the sniper were trapped, most likely that either would be dead if they moved out of their cover. So how could he take the sniper down? Gravity is always on my side, he thought idly to himself; the sniper was in a far more precarious situation than he. But how had he gotten up there . . . ? Of course – he was only a couple of vertical yards from the top of the cliff; he must've scaled down with a rope. 'But how could this work to my advantage', Vincent asked himself.
Another brilliant plan formed within Vincent's mind – he truly had the Corleone family brains, along with his father's take action methods. Leaning around the corner, he aimed his weapon at the crevice – but not at where the man was hiding. No, a little under him. He squeezed the trigger of the gun, and let loose nearly two clips of the sub-machine gun – before the crevice's support was dwindled, and it began to shake and rumble, soon to topple. Vincent could see the sniper rise and reach for his rope, beginning to climb back up to the top of the cliff.
But he never made it. He tumbled, bleeding and bullet-riddled, down a vertical mile towards the ground along with the crevice he had used for cover. Vincent smiled and did a hail-Mary before turning, and continuing to the edge of the roof, where he carefully leaped to another roof-top, continuing this pattern until he had made decent progress. Vincent Mancini-Corleone had no time to stop; the entire world was trying to kill him . . .