She doesn't have to tell him twice. With both windows busted in and the windshield wearing more than a few scuffs and cracks, the sooner they get the hell out of dodge the better. Charlie cranks the steering wheel around, ignoring the stab of pain in his side when he does it, and slams the gas pedal to the floor. The sedan peels out, hot burning rubber smell, and the clip of fire that follows them sinks a few more holes in the back window before he can wrench the car around and fly out through the half open warehouse door. The escape takes a side mirror as a casualty, which he tends to think is a forgivable loss as they careen down the cramped street in the industrial district.

They fly over a set of railroad tracks, growling through low underpasses and skittering up the narrowest side streets he can find in quick succession. He steers more by instinct than thought, desperate to put distance between them and those bastards they left behind. His fingers are numb. As he beats around one of the shoddier neighborhoods flanking the industrial park, he thinks he might be gripping the steering wheel too tightly.