This is it. The last job. The last getaway.

These were the thoughts of a man known only as 'The Driver' before he, himself, made his own getaway—a getaway from the world of running. What he'd do after he returned from this life of crime, he'd never know. He'd grown used to a certain lifestyle, that lifestyle afforded to him by his profession.

And he was going to walk away from it.

He waited behind the wheel of the car—a six-speed sedan with a little more than 400 horsepower getting to the wheels—for his employers to storm out of the bank's front exit with duffle bags full of treasury notes.

The alarm went off inside the bank and looked at his wrist watch. Something was wrong and in ten seconds he'd be leaving with or without them.

Nine, eight, seven, six…

At five seconds, his rearview mirror became flooded with flashes of red and blue light. He dumped the clutch at about 45K and sped off leaving the patrol cars in clouds of white burnout smoke. The light at the intersection up ahead was green and up through the gears he went, a steady but light rhythm.

Clutch-shift-gas.

Second Gear.

Clutch-shift-gas­.

The tires chirped. Third Gear.

And then the light changed and the intersection was blocked a handful of cop cars. He clutched-in, downshifted to first and yanked the E-brake putting him into a 180 around the median and in the direction he came. His cell went off and he thumbed a button on the steering wheel that activated his hands-free headset.

"By now, you've probably got more than half the police department on you. A chopper should be overhead any moment now. You'll never getaway from this game. Accept that."

Frustration and anger. Anger and frustration. No. He pushed those feelings deep and found his rhythm again. Clutch-shift-gas, clutch-shift-gas.

He needed to lose pursuit before the chopper picked up on his position. Brake and then a right into a tight alley and he was racing up through the gears again.

65 MPH and climbing.

Up ahead the alley way seemed to close off and sirens were drawing nearer. He gunned the throttle, his feet dancing on the pedals, powersliding to the left out of the alley before a pair of police SUV's blocked the alley.

You've been set up. But keep moving. This is the last one, don't forget that.

He snaked through side streets and alleyways and the police was one step ahead of him, as if they knew what he'd do before he did it. Any second now, he knew it, the chopper would flash its spotlight and it'd be all over for him.

At speeds normally reserved for late night runs on the freeway, he roared through pre-dawn downtown streets.

Fifth gear-120MPH-Sixth-165

The gap widened between the police and the speeding sedan and now the red and blue lights were distant colorful specs.

Now, lose them!

He slowed and turned right onto an uphill street that would dump him on a main boulevard right in front of a local high school. He ducked into one of its parking lots and killed the lights but not the engine.

If they found him, he'd need to make a break for it. The large boulevard was washed with light from above as now the chopper had finally joined the hunt. It traced up and down the boulevard and then started on its way back to the patrol cars' last position.

He shut down the engine, stepped out and felt the cold air on his skin. A deep breath prompted the adrenaline to subside and he walked away leaving behind the gallant machine that had gotten him away from the heat.

As he walked, he realized, he would never be able to escape the game.

I'll always be running. I'll always need to get away.

It was mid-morning by the time he made it home, and immediately he fell asleep only to be woken up by a phone call.

"I need a driver."

After a brief moment of hesitation, he realized there was only one thing he could do.

"Go ahead," he said.