“Shit!” Arthur spins the steering wheel hard to the left to avoid a young woman pushing a pram. “Did he overdose on Bond and Bourne before we went under?”
Hurtling the Mini Cooper down the steep hill and around another corner he swerves onto the sidewalk to bypass two men carrying an enormous plate glass window across the street. Unfortunately, the sidewalk is now loaded with market stalls.
From the passenger seat Eames calls, “Fruit cart!” even as vendors dive for cover. Arthur winces but plows on, sending bananas and oranges flying. A wooden crate of squawking poultry bounces off the hood leaving them momentarily engulfed in a cloud of feathers.
“It’s not a movie, it’s a sodding video game,” Eames exclaims with more delight than Arthur thinks is warranted.
Eames turns to check on their pursuers and frowns. “They’re still gaining on us,” he reports just as Arthur slams on the brakes and skids into a narrow alleyway, hurling Eames against the door.
“Funeral cortege.” Arthur apologizes.
“Yes, of course.” Eames grins. “If we have to drive off a cliff do you think it’ll be in slow motion?”
“Eames! You’re not supposed to be enjoying this.”
Eames laughs and asks, “Can’t a man take pride in his work?”
Looking up the alley Arthur isn’t the least bit surprised to see a fuel truck blocking their way.
“Fuck it,” he says, bracing for the collision; at least they’ll kick out in a blaze of glory.
They wake with a start, scorching heat and the stench of burning hydrocarbons echoing for a few seconds.
“I believe...” Eames pauses to clear his throat of phantom smoke, “I believe we can inform our client that his militarization is a success.”