We rode all the way to Battery Park, on the tip of Manhattan. We did not waste anytime. We dismounted out wave runners and swam the rest of the way to shore. From there, we sprinted to the nearest street and hailed the next taxi.
“Hey, can’t ya see I’m on break? You wanna go to the Empire State Building? Forget about it. No way. Beat it. I ain’t got time for this,” the driver uttered.
Scar pulled out his pistol and tactfully replied with, “Well, I know in London, that it is much easier to take the tube, but we decided on livening up your pathetic excuse for a life. So would you kindly drive us or would you rather the Port Authority find your slimy carcass floating down the East River.”
“Okay, okay. Get in. But I expect a pretty penny this,” he said in shock.
“Haha, no. Step on it,” Scar continued as he subtly grinned.
He meticulously maneuvered the cab through the Big Apple’s traffic, carefully weaving between cars and pedestrians. A speeding taxi would not be anything foreign to the streets on New York, but a speeding taxi followed by a motorcade of black Ducatis is probably a first. Each engine roaring in the background, they surrounded the car, with a few on each side and a couple in the back. Each biker was equipped with a weapon of their own.
“Who the heck are you?! And why are they chasing us?!” the driver screamed.
“Just drive! Open the sunroof!” I yelled. I raised my body out of the port in the cab and drew my pistol. 8 shots left. 7 bikers on my tail. I had to make every shot count.
I deliberately aimed, shooting each rider down like clockwork. One after the other. Two shots left with one rider on my tail.
Bang. Miss. Bang. Miss.
“Hey, can’t ya see I’m on break? You wanna go to the Empire State Building? Forget about it. No way. Beat it. I ain’t got time for this,” the driver uttered.
Scar pulled out his pistol and tactfully replied with, “Well, I know in London, that it is much easier to take the tube, but we decided on livening up your pathetic excuse for a life. So would you kindly drive us or would you rather the Port Authority find your slimy carcass floating down the East River.”
“Okay, okay. Get in. But I expect a pretty penny this,” he said in shock.
“Haha, no. Step on it,” Scar continued as he subtly grinned.
He meticulously maneuvered the cab through the Big Apple’s traffic, carefully weaving between cars and pedestrians. A speeding taxi would not be anything foreign to the streets on New York, but a speeding taxi followed by a motorcade of black Ducatis is probably a first. Each engine roaring in the background, they surrounded the car, with a few on each side and a couple in the back. Each biker was equipped with a weapon of their own.
“Who the heck are you?! And why are they chasing us?!” the driver screamed.
“Just drive! Open the sunroof!” I yelled. I raised my body out of the port in the cab and drew my pistol. 8 shots left. 7 bikers on my tail. I had to make every shot count.
I deliberately aimed, shooting each rider down like clockwork. One after the other. Two shots left with one rider on my tail.
Bang. Miss. Bang. Miss.
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