The sound of the rain outside was a low, heavy roar, echoing off the pillars.

I scanned the rows of parked cars.

“There,” Vincenzo said, pointing a trembling finger toward a nondescript gray sedan in the corner.

“Is it yours?” I asked.

“It belongs to one of my shell companies,” he said. “The keys are under the bumper.”

We hurried across the cold concrete, our footsteps echoing loudly.

I knelt down, my fingers finding the magnetic key-box tucked inside the rear bumper.

I unlocked the doors, and we scrambled inside.

The interior smelled of stale coffee and old leather.

I started the engine, and the V6 roared to life, its headlights cutting through the dark garage.

I shifted into drive and hit the accelerator, the tires squealing as we sped toward the exit ramp.

We burst through the metal gate into the torrential downpour.

The city was a blur of neon signs and slick, black asphalt.

Water pooled in the gutters, splashing high against the sedan’s wheels as we turned onto the coastal highway.

“How long do we have?” Vincenzo asked, his voice strained.