he spots the proverbial daylight at the end of the tunnel.
in the teeth of gunfire. bullets explode through the back window in a cacophony of crashing glass. a shot wings his door. pop! into headset:
he sees someone give him the finger. mutters:
he jerks the steering wheel and swerves off the street, driving through the parking lot of the historic hotel figueroa.
he's got no place else to go.
he wants to drive across the rooftop strip but there's a big problem: the giant sign that exclaims hotel figueroa in red and white neon lights blocks so much of the strip that even the mini couldn't squeeze through.