Christoforo flung the 330 into the parking lot, scattering the assembled staff and poliziotti, darting through gaps and open spots between the parked cars in a desperate attempt to get away from this mess. Pasquale opened his eyes as they danced through the lot, somehow avoiding a catastrophe at every turn. “There, there! We have to beat that truck turning in here!” Pasquale shouted, pointing toward the only way out of the lot, where a big Scania HGV was starting to lumber into the delivery entrance. Christoforo gripped the wheel and floored the accelerator, launching the small roadster along the parking lot thruway and into a game of chicken with a vehicle forty times larger than them. All Pasquale could do is just hold onto the windshield frame ahead of him and hope the car and drivers don’t get squashed like a bug on the grill of the truck.
At the very last second, the Scania driver slammed on the brakes, blowing his fancy collection of airhorns at the little Italian roadster in anger as the Scagliati flicked right and left, cutting the truck off by mere inches to escape a jam. Pasquale looked back, wide-eyed, at the nearly impossible feat they pulled off and shouted in excitement, clapping Christoforo on the shoulder as they sped away from the chaos at the factory. “Way to go, Chistopez, I thought for sure we were only getting out of that one in a paddy wagon!”
“Well, we aren’t out of it yet Zocca,” Christoforo said, scanning the road ahead of them, “The Guardia is going to keep harassing us if we stay in Spain, we need to get across the border pronto!” Christoforo paused for a moment, scanning the 330’s gauges, “We also need a fuel stop pretty soon too, but not here in Alicante…somewhere quiet along the highway, hopefully!” Pasquale rolled the maps over, looking for fuel stop along their planned route.
“There’s a services by the Ford plant near Valencia, should be quiet this time of day!” With that, the lads sped out of town and back onto the Autovias, pressing on as fast as they dared, considering their recent tussle with the law. The team started to click off the miles and a sense of ease started to find its way back into the 330’s cockpit, finding themselves facing less traffic and less chatter from the police scanner as they roared down the highway at full chat, the 330 performing remarkably well for a temperamental Italian sports car. A couple more fuel stops, taking up valuable time, and a probably wise diversion approaching Barcelona, and the 330 was heading northbound toward the Pyrenees and the French border. Stopping quickly to put the roof up and change drivers, Pasquale heard the sound of beating rotors overhead and looked up, seeing a dark-coloured Alouette flying overhead. He squinted, trying to make out the markings on the little helicopter.
“Hey Christopez, have a look up and tell me if you can see any markings on that helicopter.” Pasquale said over the idling engine.
Christoforo looked up and craned his neck upward, as if the extra inch he gained could somehow help his visual acuity. “It’s dark coloured mostly, but there are some bright bands of colour on it I think…why?”
Pasquale turned almost the same colour as his suit; “Christopez, that’s what I was afraid of. That’s not a police helicopter, it’s the French Army…”
