MOTOR CITY

by
Chad St.John

WARNER BROS

FIRST DRAFT
5/15/09C
<NOTE TO READER: AS THERE IS LITTLE AUDIBLE DIALOGUE IN
THIS STORY, DIALOGUE THAT APPEARS IN ITALICS IS
DESCRIPTIVE OF CHARACTER REACTION AND/OR EMOTION
CONVEYED.>

EXT. DETROIT - NIGHT (1970’S)

The city is lit up. If it glows, or otherwise emits

light, it’s turned on.

But, something doesn’t look quite right as we MOVE OVER

downtown.

A Skyscraper or two is missing.

No cell phone towers.

A Billboard advertises a KID who would “like to teach the

world to sing”--in perfect harmony, no less. He holds an
old school bottle of COCA-COLA.

Donna Summer that echoes from someone’s stereo...

GRAPHIC: 30 YEARS AGO.

WE MOVE over buildings, away from Downtown, to a more

residential area. Upscale.

A FIRE glows several blocks away. A big one. Fire

Engines and red lights. Sirens are still coming.

As we move over the top of a string of Apartment

Buildings...

Some MANIAC RUNS RIGHT BY US--carrying a ONE-LEGGED DEAD

MAN over his shoulder.

TRACKING WITH MANIAC:

His clothes are torn, blackened by fire, filth, and

blood. Cuts and scrapes bleed openly.

His head is shaved boot camp style. His face is covered

in a dozen scars--the kind you get from deep gashes that
heal without the benefit of stitches.

There’s a pistol-grip sawed off double-barrel shotgun in

his hand and murder in his eyes.

Meet JOHN MILLER.

Running for all he’s worth across the top of an apartment

building, he LEAPS into the night air off the edge...
 2.

EXT. ROOF #2 - CONTINUOUS

And lands with a BONE JARRING THUD--the DEAD GUY tumbles

and skids.

Miller twisted an ankle.

Means nothing right now. If he coughed up his spleen, it

wouldn’t stop him. Not now.

Not this night.

He picks up the shotgun and drags the Dead Guy to the

edge of the building, as the GUNNING OF ENGINES and the
SQUEALING OF TIRES ebbs into focus from below...

EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS

Two late 70’s MERCEDES 400’s roar by, traffic laws be

damned.

EXT. ROOF #2 - CONTINUOUS

Miller zeroes in like a hawk on the headlights tearing

ass up the street ten stories below.

Wipes his bleeding nose--puts this shotgun down...

And THROWS THE DEAD GUY OVER THE EDGE.

After a BEAT of Miller’s heavy breathing--a hellacious

BANG below. Tires screech. CRASH.

Miller cracks the shotgun in half--pulls two fresh shells

from a pocket, shoves them in, and jumps over the edge on
to the fire escape...

Very calm. Very matter-of-fact.

EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS

A leg and a loafer sticks out of the windshield of the

Mercedes that’s wrapped around a light pole--direct hit
with the Dead Guy.

The other Mercedes hit a FIRE HYRDRANT--still running as

water GUSHES UNDERNEATH the bent front end.

Miller limps off the Fire Escape and Zombies towards the
light pole Mercedes, shotgun at the ready.

Makes a beeline for the passenger’s window--doesn’t even

look inside. Just shoves the shotgun into the car and...

BOOM.
 3.

Miller heads to the fire hydrant Mercedes further down

the street--approaches from the front.

It’s obscured by the showering water--halos of headlights

in the torrent. The windshield is spiderwebbed--
impossible to see through.

Shotgun leveled squarely at the opaque windshield, Miller

limps towards it.

Cautious steps.

Slow.

Tense.

THE ENGINE ROARS.

The mangled Mercedes leaps out of the wall of water,

nailing Miller, who finds himself on the slippery hood...

TRACKING WITH MERCEDES:

Ripping down the street--engine knocking. Miller

desperately tries to hang on to both hood and gun.

He throws a look over his shoulder...

MILLER’S POV:

A cross street. A red light. A river of traffic zipping

by. Half a block away and this car isn’t even slowing
down...

Shit.

Miller punches the shotgun barrel through the already

shattered windshield, right where the Driver’s head
should be...

The BRAKES ARE SLAMMED.

His grip slips.

Thrown from the hood, Miller sails directly into the

midst of the passing cars...

A SHOT EXPLODES from Miller’s shotgun as he flies

backwards...

FREEZE FRAME:

On his back, BETWEEN two passing trucks--firing between

his legs in mid-air.

But, it’s not buckshot loaded into that shotgun blast.

 4.

It’s PENNIES.

Smoking, flaming, copper discs--frozen an inch from

impacting the windshield...

CUT TO:

EXT. RIO DE JANEIRO - DAY (PRESENT DAY)

The giant statue of “Christ The Redeemer” stands on

clouds.

WE MOVE past his open arms and view the city of Rio
below. Establishing.

Persian Blue water, freckled with white dot sail boats,

kisses an emerald green coast, upon which sits the city
of...

GRAPHIC: RIO DE JANEIRO. PRESENT DAY.

WE MOVE over the city, never seeing the slums, up the

coast to an...

EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING PENTHOUSE ROOF - DAY

An OLD MAN takes in a gorgeous view. Alone. Half of his

face is badly scarred.

The few sprigs of white hair left on his head flutter in

the ocean breeze.

Easily 75 to 80--judging by the oxygen tank on his arm

and the air tube up his snout, not in tip top form.

He can see Death from where he’s standing.

Watery eyes close.

His face lifts.

Sun and the ocean breeze bathe his wrinkled skin. A

slight smile creeps over what were once lips on a younger
face.

A MAID exits glass penthouse doors with a tray in her

hand. Atop this tray is a sweating ice filled
cocktail...

And a BRIGHT RED PACKAGE.

Sensing her presence as she retreats, the Old Man grabs

his cane and hobbles to a deck chair. Carefully seating
himself, so as to not break anything, he takes a long
luxurious pull from the cocktail, before noticing...
 5.

The Red Package.

A tied red blow flapping gently in the wind.

He opens it--a LEATHER SCRAP BOOK.

Curious. Drink in hand, he sits the book in his lap and

opens it.

Yellowed. Old. Newspaper clippings.

Unexpected.

Headlines creep by us as page after page is turned.

“Soviet forces invade Afghanistan.”

“Muhammad Ali announces his retirement from boxing.”

“Pirates win The Series.”

INT. PENTHOUSE - CONTINUOUS

The Maid doles out pills from myriad medicine bottles.

Outside, A GLASS SHATTERS.

She races out...

EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING PENTHOUSE ROOF - CONTINUOUS

She explodes out the glass doors, expecting to find The

Old Man sprawled on the tiles.

But, he isn’t.

Still seated in the deck chair. The Scrap Book across

his lap. The shattered glass of his dropped cocktail
gleams in a puddle below his shaking hand.

He stares at a faded Headline: “LOCAL MAN CAUGHT IN

BIGGEST BUST EVER”.

There’s a grainy black and white photo of a MAN on the

ground--a Cop’s knee in his back.

His teeth are bared--forever frozen in time yelling.

But, it isn’t anger on his face. It almost looks like...

Anguish.

It’s John Miller.

The Old Man stares at Miller’s face. No reaction. No

trace of recognition. No hint of emotion.
 6.

Just that dropped glass...

FADE TO:

EXT. FACTORY - (1970’S)

When you think of a shitty industrial job, you think of

this place--brick and smoke belching smoke stacks. Hard
work for hard working people, or those to whom it never
occurred they could do something else with their lives.

The Night Shift just got cut loose.

WORKERS stream out the gates, filthy and tired. These

cats ain’t your Blue Collar Heroes. This ain’t the good
Union gig.

These guys work here because they can’t get jobs anywhere
else. You can see it in their faces--this job is the
only thing keeping them from being criminals.

Again.

ONE GUY exits. Head down under a dirty Detroit Tigers

ball cap.

The others are paired up along racial lines. Black Guys.

White Guys. Hispanic Guys. Friends. Colleagues in
sweat and grime.

But not this guy. He walks alone.

The other Workers toss sideways glances at him along the

way. Fear? Distrust?

Admiration?

No one even talks to him. Funny thing is, there’s

absolutely nothing about him that obviously causes it.

He’s utterly normal in this crowd.

The only thing out of the ordinary? He walks with his

eyes down. Never raising them. No bravado. No cocksure
swagger like the others.

A quiet humility in his body language the others do not

possess.

EXT. PARKING LOT - DAWN

The guy in the Tigers cap stops at his beat to hell and
rusted ‘65 Chevy Malibu.
 7.

Someone is leaning on the trunk. Judging this book by

its cover, he’s a fence/pimp/all around shady individual.
His name is YOUNGBLOOD.

Our guy lifts his face--underneath the brim of that dirty

Detroit Tigers ball cap, a familiar face...

JOHN MILLER.

Glances over their shoulders. On the sly. Miller palms

a handful of foldin’ money to Youngblood.

Who produces a tiny brown bag like David Copperfield--

hands it to Miller.

ACROSS THE PARKING LOT:

On the other side of the asphalt island--a Z28 CAMARO.

EXT. Z28 - CONTINUOUS

Three shady looking mothers, ATHOS, PORTHOS, and ARAMIS,

watch between parked cars.

They watch Miller peek into the small brown bag and
smile. He slaps Youngblood some skin and climbs into his
Malibu.

Aramis starts the Z28--rumbles to life like Detroit

engines used to.

INT. MALIBU - DAWN

Pre-morning rush hour traffic--Miller tosses the small

brown bag inside the glove box.

He slides a DOOBIE BROTHERS 8-track into the deck--the

grooving riff of LONG TRAIN RUNNIN’ kicks in...

“Down around the corner,

A half a mile from here,

You can see them long trains run,

And you watch them disappear.

Without love,

Where would you be now?

Without love...”

Miller wipes exhaustion from his eyes, as the Z28 pulls

alongside him. Porthos tosses a sideways glance Miller’s
direction.
 8.

The Z28 slows, vanishing from the Malibu’s driver window--

Miller never notices.

INT. CONVENIENCE STORE - DAWN

The CLERK behind the counter chatters away on the phone

in a language as foreign as he appears to be.

He tosses a wave to Miller who just walked through the

door, and right out of the frame. The Clerk throws
today’s WANT ADS on the counter. The Help Wanted
section. Already circled.

He presses buttons on the cash register between staccato

outbursts of whatever he’s speaking--knows what Miller is
buying.

Miller returns cup of coffee, grabs the Want Ads, and

drops a few coins on the counter--waves goodbye.

Morning ritual between these two. Coffee and Help

Wanted.

EXT. CONVENIENCE STORE - CONTINUOUS

Miller exits for his car.

Problem.

It ain’t there.

Takes a second for what he’s seeing to careen around

inside his tired brain looking for something to connect
with.

Drops the coffee when it does. But, not the Want Ads.

Miller whiplashes his eyes up the street.

There’s his wheels! Just turning the corner...

EXT. STREET - DAWN

The Malibu rumbles up the street, as Miller careens

around a corner on foot--running his ass off after his
ride.

Still clinging on to those Want Ads.

The Malibu makes another turn down the block.

EXT. ANOTHER STREET - MOMENTS LATER

Clutching at a stitch in his side, Miller gasps for air.

His run slows to a defeated walk.
 9.

Can’t go anymore. He kicks a garbage can in a rage.

Just as it appears that Miller is about to scream the

longest, most creative stream of profanity ever
uttered...

A Z28 Camaro roars out of a nearby alley, tires

squealing, and blows by Miller. Athos, Aramis, and
Porthos lock eyes with him on the way by.

EXT. NEARBY ALLEY - MOMENTS LATER

Miller finds his car. Driver’s door open. Just sitting

there.

He panics...

INT. MALIBU - CONTINUOUS

Terrified, Miller opens the glove box. The small brown

bag is still there.

MILLER
Thank you, Jesus.

With the greatest sigh of relief mankind has ever

witnessed, he opens the bag--pulls out a...

Small VELVETEEN BOX.

Miller opens it and gazes at the ENGAGEMENT RING, with

the world’s smallest diamond, inside.

A sliver of Cubic Zirconia.

To Miller it’s the Hope Diamond.

EXT. THE NEIGHBORHOOD - MORNING

Row after row of tiny houses that have walls going for
them and little else.

In front one of these rotten little houses in this rotten

little place, sitting atop a perfect little lawn, we find
Miller’s Malibu.

INT. MILLER’S HOUSE (BEDROOM) - MORNING

Miller sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the

Engagement Ring in his hand--listens to RUNNING WATER
from the shower.

His shirt is off. Exposed chest and arms covered in the

haphazard tattoos of a haphazard life.
 10.

Most the kind you get with a straight pin and Bic ink.
Jail House Tatts scrawled all over a body that had more
time than skin.

But, a few are ornate and professional. Like the one on

his shoulder--a small banner with a single word...

RANGER.

But, it’s faded. That was a long time ago.

He looks to the bathroom...

MILLER’S POV:

The dark curves of a WOMAN are visible through the

plastic distortion of the shower door.

Excitement and fear take root. Courage and determination

pull him to his feet. He’s gonna do it.

Hard eyes that have seen hard years soften to raw

adoration, as he watches the womanly shape on his way
across the bedroom.

But, something stops him cold. Like when you feel

someone behind you.

He turns...slowly.

And sees himself in a third-hand mirror. Miller and his

reflection stand back to back, each staring over a
shoulder at the other.

He looks at the Jail House Tattoos. He looks the same to

us, but we just ain’t seeing what he sees.

Who he sees.

Miller puts the ring in his pocket and walks out, as the
woman in the shower hums a pretty song...

INT. KITCHEN - LATER

Eggs sizzle.

Her name is SOPHIA and she’d be beautiful if she didn’t

look so damned tired. She has that “two jobs” look.

Her back is to Miller, who sits at a card table

pretending to be kitchen table. The WANT ADS lay before
him.

He neatly folds today’s classifieds--lays them on a stack

of other folded classifieds. A month’s worth.
 11.

Morning ritual. Complete.

BEHIND SOPHIA:

He kneels behind her back, the Engagement Ring in his

hand. Try again. Do it right.

She has no idea he’s there. He opens his mouth to speak--

stops. He’s trying. Real hard.

Miller tries to find his Zen, and tries again.

Fails. Curses himself silently for being such a wuss.

Then, he looks at the crappy kitchen with the crappy

furniture. He looks at her tattered and frayed robe. He
looks at that ridiculous little ring in his hand.

He just can’t do it.

MILLER
She don’t deserve me.

Closes his eyes in resignation--closes the box.

Something seems to break inside of him.

When he opens his eyes, he’s staring at the front of

Sophia’s robe.

BUSTED. A plate of steaming eggs in her hand, she’s

frozen like a deer in headlights.

They stare terror at each other for a long, long BEAT.

Till, she slings the eggs skyward with a HAPPY SHRIEK.

SOPHIA
Yes!

EXT. FRONT DOOR - CONTINUOUS

CLOSE ON DOOR WINDOW:

Through the dingy front door window, past the security

bars, and down the hall, we watch Sophia and Miller
embrace.

She smiles. He smiles. They talk. We can’t hear what

they’re saying from out here, but you can read the lips.

I love you’s galore.

Sophia slides the ring on her finger--kisses Miller like

it was their last day on earth.

This is what happiness looks like.

 12.

PULL BACK:

Ever so slowly--TWO COPS on either side of the front

door. Helmets and Shotguns at the ready.

BACK FURTHER:

Two more.

And, two more. And...

EIGHT COPS ready to rock--one with a battering ram at the

ready.

The pounding of HELICOPTER BLADES bleeds into audio

focus. Coming.

INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS

Sophia and Miller end their kiss just as a FLASH BANG

GRENADE crashes through the window.

A BRILLIANT FLASH.

WE GO TO BLACK.

A deafening BOOM.

ALL SOUND CEASES.

Slowly, we FADE IN...

COPS swarm. Shotguns aimed. Yelling. We can’t hear

them.

WE CAN ONLY HEAR what Miller and Sophia hear--that thin,

high-pitched, hissing RING when ear drums are overloaded.

Miller and Sophia are thrown to the floor.

EXT. FRONT YARD - MORNING

The Helicopter hovers over the lawn--rotors pound the

air, drowning out all sound.

Sophia is in the back of a squad car--anguished face

visible through the window.

Yelling. Cursing. Shouting.

At the trunk of a beat up Malibu, a UNIFORMED COP pulls

KILO after KILO of COCAINE out.

Miller, in cuffs, can’t believe his eyes. Shakes his

head. Slowly. Then, faster...
 13.

MILLER
This ain’t mine. Oh, God this
isn’t mine...

He shoots a look at Sophia in the squad car.

“You promised me”, she mouths.

INT. SQUAD CAR - CONTINUOUS

Outside, Miller struggles against his cuffs. Screaming

at the top of his lungs--all we hear is Sophia’s heart
breaking.

Anguished sobs.

We watch Miller fight. Struggle.

This is the fight of a man who has been set up and is

just now realizing it.

EXT. MALIBU - CONTINUOUS

One Uniformed Officer appears to have a difficult time

with the bust.

KENT--a walking recruitment poster.

He looks at the Kilos stacked thigh high. At Miller’s

House.

The neighborhood.

At Sophia sob in the back of the Squad Car for a

lingering moment.

Kent shakes his head. 1+1=3 in this math. Something

ain’t right.

EXT. FRONT YARD - CONTINUOUS

Miller is a snarling, growling mess of an innocent man--

he’s wrestled to the ground. A knee in his back. A boot
on his head.

Eye level with the grass, a pair of wing tips approaches.

They belong to a snake in a cheap suit--LIEUTENANT

SAVICK. The badge hanging from his belt gleams as he
squats next to Miller.

Pitiless eyes fall on Miller’s dirt covered face--teeth

bared like a trapped animal.

Savick raises a finger to his lips.

 14.

SAVICK
Shhh.

Only one man besides Miller happens to catch Savick’s

gesture--Kent.

FROM ABOVE:

We pull back. Higher. Slowly revealing the scope of

this raid.

There must be twenty POLICE CARS here. FIFTY COPS.

Streets blocked off.

For one man.

EXT. SEDAN - MORNING

Savick strolls towards an unmarked car--a STYROFOAM

COFFEE CUP in his hand.

He passes the parked Z28 Camaro we’ve seen earlier.

Without breaking stride, he sits the Coffee Cup on the T-
Tops and keeps walking.

A BEAT later, a hand reaches out of the Camaro--nabs the

cup.

INT. Z28 - CONTINUOUS

With Athos and Porthos looking on, Aramis pulls the

plastic lid off the Coffee Cup.

A wad of HUNDRED DOLLAR BILLS big enough to choke Oprah.

Services rendered.

EXT. Z28 - CONTINUOUS

The Camaro pulls away...

Revealing Officer Kent in his Squad Car half a block

away.

INT. KENT’S SQUAD CAR - CONTINUOUS

He tries to forget what he just saw.

It won’t let him.

INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY

Miller at small table beneath harsh fluorescent light.

 15.

His foot taps staccato on the floor. Eyes dart--brain

working overtime, trying to figure out what the hell is
happening.

His head turns. Just as surely as if he heard someone

say his name.

Miller looks past his reflection in the two way mirror...

INT. OBSERVATION ROOM (OTHER SIDE OF MIRROR) - CONTINUOUS

Sophia’s hand shoots to her mouth--Miller is staring dead

at her. No way on God’s Green Earth he can see her.

No way he can know she’s there...

But, he does.

The tears come again.

A reassuring hand enters the frame--rests on her

shoulder. Savick hands her a handkerchief.

Anger. Heartbreak. It all comes out. Unable to bear it-

-she bolts out the door.

INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - CONTINUOUS

Miller presses his hands against the two way mirror.

Begging physics to give him a break--trying like hell to
stare through it...

He can only see himself.

The door opens--a man that narrows Miller’s eyes to slits

enters . He subconsciously takes a step back.

Impeccably dressed. 40’s. This is no Cop. This dude is

a Viper in a trendy suit.

His name is RAMIREZ.

He has a seat at the table and unplugs the cord from the
Microphone on it--gestures for Miller to sit.

INT. OBSERVATION ROOM - CONTINUOUS

Savick watches Ramirez speak as we...

FLASH CUT TO:

INT. NIGHT CLUB - (FLASH BACK)

The joint is jumpin’. The music BLARES, like it does in

a real club--you have to scream an inch from someone’s
ear to be heard.
 16.

WE FIND Miller at the bar. Alone. Sipping a beer, and

looking as out of place.

This isn’t the Miller we’ve known thus far. This guy is
a Thug. This guy’s body language is dangerous.

No trace of the quiet humility we’ve seen.

He hasn’t met the woman that inspired it yet.

Miller waves over the BARTENDER, who is all too happy to

see him.

The Bartender produces a wad of cash. Miller produces a

bag of grass. Pleasure doin’ business with ya.

No sooner has Miller stepped away from the bar to leave,

someone RUNS into him. Hard.

Ready to punch the drunk in the esophagus, Miller freezes

when he lays eyes on the culprit--Sophia. Lip split wide
open. Mascara running.

Somebody slapped her around.

She doesn’t know him. This must be how they met.

We can read his lips over the POUNDING music.

MILLER
You OK, Lady?

She away--keeps running through the crowd. Miller

watches her go. Sips beer from his bottle. Follows.

Not many men can walk away from a beat up girl.

The one’s that can aren’t men.

INT. RESTROOMS - MOMENTS LATER

Sophia shoves her way past a line. Miller breaks the

crowd just in time to see Sophia run into the LADIES
ROOM.

Well...that’s that.

Fuck it. He tried.

Out of the crowd emerges three men--RAMIREZ and TWO

GOONS. They shove Miller out of the way as they do
everyone else.

Goons #1 and #2 bully their way into the Ladies Room--

drag Sophia out.
 17.

She ain’t happy about it, cursing them for all they’re
worth under the BEAT of the deafening music.

Ramirez grabs her arm. They’re an item.

No doubt, this asshole is the one responsible for her

split lip. And, he seems none too happy with her
rebellion--pulls her towards the crowd.

One problem...

Miller stands in his way.

Silently.

Unmoving.

He and Ramirez glare at each other. When two cats stare

at each other like this, somebody is leaving feet first.

Hard to tell who swings first in the strobing, flashing

dance lights.

Doesn’t really matter.

Miller uses that beer bottle like a club, and though he’s
tangling with both Goons, in short order they’re laid
out.

Asses properly stomped.

A GLEAM in the seizure inducing lights--chrome.

Ramirez levels a chrome .38 at Miller’s gut. Sophia

bites the shit out of him, the gun rises and goes
off...BAM!

Miller swings the bottle, knocking the gun out of

Ramirez’s hand--shatters the bottle.

Still gripping the broken neck, he brings the razor sharp

edges back across Ramirez’s chest--slicing three long
gashes deep from collar bone to rib cage.

Ramirez drops to his knees, bleeding a river.

Miller extends his hand to Sophia. An offer.

History between her and Ramirez.

History enough that the choice isn’t immediate. She

hesitates. Her eyes go back and forth between the two
men.

Sheer defiance--she takes Miller’s hand. Miller pulls

Sophia behind his back--backs towards the door.
 18.

The Goons, still seeing stars, help Ramirez to his feet.

He never breaks his hate filled stare with Miller. Of
all the things you expect him to do, Ramirez does the
last in line...

He smiles.

A sinister, evil, from the pit of Hell itself smile. A

threat in that smile. A promise in those eyes.

Miller nods, still backing towards the door...

INT. INTERROGATION ROOM - DAY

Ramirez pulls something from his pocket--sits it on the

table between he and Miller. Walks out cuckling.

Miller doesn’t look. He knows what it is...

That tiny little Engagement Ring that represented his

future an hour ago.

Still does...

EXT. APARTMENT BUILDING PENTHOUSE ROOF - (PRESENT DAY)

The SCRAP BOOK open on the deck chair.

The Old Man, cane in hand, shuffles for the glass doors
as quick as his old bones will let him.

He running from something.

The ocean breeze kicks up, catching pages of the scrap

book--flips a few. It stops on a yellowed headline...

“LOCAL MAN GETS 25 YEARS AFTER 6 MONTH TRIAL”

An ink smeared black and white of Miller dead center.

Cuffed. Pulled through a crowd of COPS and REPORTERS.

INT. PRISON PROCESSING - (1970’S)

Miller and five other PRISONERS are naked against a tile

wall--gritting teeth and yelling in the spray of ice cold
water from a hose wielding GUARD.

Towels are thrown to them.

Delousing powder thrown on them.

Orange Jumpsuits are distributed.

Step outta line and you get a baton to the back of the
neck, as one IDIOT learns the hard way--dropping like a
sack of flour in front of Miller.
 19.

INT. GENERAL POPULATION - LATER

Row after row of darkened cells--warehousing of men.

A deafening roar of disembodied voices emanating from the

cells is a testament to the people in them.

Threats. Promises...

Fresh meat--caged Predators sense it.

WALKING POV:

WE MOVE along a walk way. Glimpses of angry FACES

between bars. Over and over.

A Demon Display at a psychotic zoo.

REVERSE POV:

CLOSE ON MILLER. Stone-faced, walking along the walkway--

hands and threats shoot out of the bars at him.

PULL BACK:

He isn’t alone. Escorted by three Prison Guards. Three

men we’ve already met.

Three men whose vocations we’ve incorrectly assumed...

Athos, Aramis, and Porthos.

Uniforms crisp. Nightsticks in hand.

Miller exudes desperation. Anticipation. His jaw is set.

He knows where this is going.

So do you.

Athos shoves Miller into an open cell. They follow him

inside, disappearing from view.

We stay put, staring down the walk way, cell doors

stretching to infinity before us...

Lights Out. The overhead lights are shut off--CLACK,

CLACK, CLACK. Darkness races down the cell block in fits
and starts.

WE HEAR THE BLOWS--nightsticks connecting with a body.

Again and again.

The din of Prisoner voices, that ambient roar, subsides.

Even they’re listening.

 20.

Quiet.

Except for the sound of a relentless beating--each strike

like the thump of boxer’s gloves hitting a heavy bag.

INT. MILLER’S CELL - MORNING

Miller’s eyes are almost swollen shut--ten shades of

black and blue. Lips split. Blood has dried where it
oozed from gashes.

Shirtless--his body covered in swollen welts from a

hundred strikes of nightsticks.

Remarkably, he isn’t curled up on the floor. No. He’s

struggling to do push ups--body screaming in agony.
Guttural whimpers of pain from deep within his throat
with every effort.

He doesn’t cry out--jaw clenched to keep the sound

inside.

Swallow it.

Bury it.

Overcome it.

Boots stop in front of Miller’s cell. Aramis chuckles at

the sight of Miller--tosses a LARGE ENVELOPE into the
cell, and slithers on his way.

Groaning with every movement, Miller opens the envelope.

PHOTOS.

A wedding reception.

Ramirez in a tux, Sophia in white, feeding each other

cake with interlocking arms. Married.

A handwritten note reads: “YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN THE

HONEYMOON. --RAMIREZ”

Miller nods. The kind of nod when life just made a

decision for you, and all you can do is come along for
the ride.

Swallow it.

Bury it.

Overcome...
 21.

INT. HOTEL - DAY

FLASH BULBS POP as Ramirez and Sophia feed each other

cake. The moment frozen in forever in that photograph
races by.

The Reception.

Good times. Music is pumping. Champagne glasses clink.

Sophia is radiant. Beautiful. Dolled up.

This is how God meant this woman to look. Not tired.

Not run down. Not running on nothing but will power and
cheap coffee.

One of the PARTY PEOPLE hits the dance floor like he was
Travolta. The crowd’s attention turns. He’s cheered on.

Even Ramirez raises a glass.

But, unwatched, Sophia’s radiance dims. The smile goes

bittersweet under no one’s eyes.

Her jaw sets--she chases the moment away, and throttles

it to death somewhere in her mind. Raising a glass of
champagne, she drags Ramirez to the dance floor.

Booze and music.

That’ll quiet the devils.

She grabs Ramirez’s face and kisses him like a Kamikaze.

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND - DAY

The fucking place takes up half a city block--the massive

courtyard and eight foot tall fence take up most of the
rest.

It was built to keep people out. Or, in.

Sophia and Ramirez exit a Limo.

Welcome home.

INT. RAMIREZ’S MANSION - MOMENTS LATER

Palatial. Excessively so.

Sophia is experiencing every Little Girl’s dream of

becoming a Princess, and she’s just been shown the
castle. Utterly speechless.

So enamored with her new home, and all that it is, she
doesn’t notice...
 22.

The BARS on windows. The GUNS under the jackets of

Ramirez’s GOONS.

The subtle similarities to the very prison that Miller

suffers in, glossed over in the trappings of wealth and
excess.

INT. BEDROOM - MOMENTS LATER

Sophia walks slowly and seductively towards Ramirez.

Coyly, she unbuttons her blouse. One button...

Two...

Her blouse falls open, reminding us that much of the 70’s

was a braless time. Ramirez holds her face, kisses
her...

CUT TO:

INT. MILLER’S CELL - DAY

CLOSE ON MILLER’S FACE:

Intense hatred and sweat. Jaw clenched. Nostrils

flared.

His face appears and disappears from the frame...

PULL BACK:

Muscles tremble and flex as he SLOWLY executes one-armed

push ups. No sign of fatigue. No sign tiring.

REVERSE ON MILLER:

Sophia and Ramirez are in the cell with him. The prior
scene in the bedroom between them plays out here in front
of Miller...

A broken heart’s imagination.

He watches Sophia’s blouse fall to the cold concrete

floor. Ramirez gets on his knees--caresses her stomach
with his face. Kisses it.

He looks Miller dead in the eye.

Miller stares back--gets to his feet. But, he’s alone

again. No one here.

Just him.

Sweating thoughts of murder.

 23.

INT. POLICE STATION HALLWAY - DAY

Christmas lights hang. Goofy decorations.

A COP dressed as Santa gets in Officer Kent’s way, as he

strides down the hall like a man on a mission.

He opens an office door without knocking.

Behind a desk, sits Savick--doesn’t like the intrusion.

Kent could give a shit. SLAMS the door behind him.

EXT. SIDEWALK - DAY

Snowing.

The Silly Season upon us. Christmas lights and

decorations hang from street lights.

Shoppers, bundled against the wind’s bite, slosh through

it all for that one last deal at Bloomingdales.

Welcome to the REALLY good part of town.

INT. CAFE - DAY

Among the BUSINESSMEN and WIVES, wearing enough fur to

make any member of PETA have an aneurysm, we find Sophia.

A stack of shopping bags sits waist high in the floor

next to her. She sips wine--munches on a salad that
would’ve set Miller back a week’s pay.

You can tell she’s New Money--she shovels that salad into
her mouth like she’s waiting for someone to come take it
all away.

Can’t buy refinement, and old habits die hard.

Especially, ones born of hunger and lack.

Someone stops at her table.

Her mouth full of salad, she looks up--lettuce hangs out

of her lips. The fork frozen halfway back to the plate.

It’s Officer Kent, sporting civilian threads.

He’s been savagely beaten. Fucked up comes to mind. An

eye swollen shut. Face blackened and puffy. Nose
bandaged and broken.

Uncomfortable face to look at.

Sophia swallows her salad hard--manages a sickened smile.

 24.

Till, Kent tosses that tiny ENGAGEMENT RING on the table

in front of her.

He takes a seat. Her smile takes a hike.

A WAITRESS comes by, fills Sophia’s glass with water.

Kent waits till she’s gone.

TRACKING WITH WAITRESS:

Kent and Sophia receding, he begins to speak. Tells a

story. What he saw.

What he knows...

INT. FAMILY ROOM - NIGHT

The Christmas Tree is massive--has to be to umbrella all

the presents under it. Nat King Cole croons.

Ramirez tears into a present, as Sophia sips wine. She

hasn’t laid off the vino since lunch.

She haphazardly fills her glass, as Ramirez gets to the

chewy center of the gift...

It’s the tiny Engagement Ring.

Ramirez levels a glare at Sophia that would melt paint.

She throws the glass of wine in her hand at Ramirez’s
head.

INT. PRISON VISITOR ROOM - DAY

Youngblood sits on one side of the glass partition, a

telephone receiver to his ear.

On the other side sits Miller--his hair long, his beard

full. His face covered in scars--gashes healed without
the benefit of stitches.

The fire of Hell burns in his eyes.

Youngblood speaks on the other side of the glass--we

can’t hear his words, but it ain’t good based on Miller’s
face.

Like he’s being stabbed with an ice pick repeatedly, and

refusing to acknowledge it--hands clenched into shaking
fists.

Youngblood brings his fingers to his eyes, shaped in the

letter “C”. As if he were looking through...
 25.

EXT. BINOCULARS POV - NIGHT

Someone watches Ramirez’s Mansion.

Watching through the large windows of the Family Room,

Sophia and Ramirez are clearly going at it.

The CONTINUATION OF THE FIGHT that began previously.

EXT. ROOFTOP ACROSS STREET - CONTINUOUS

The binoculars come down--it’s Youngblood. A frown

spreads over his face--he lifts the looking glasses back
to his eyes...

BINOCULARS POV:

Just in time to see Ramirez knock Sophia across the room--

hard. She tumbles into that big ass Christmas tree.

He drags her up by the hair, screams God knows what into

her face--slaps the shit out of her.

She struggles free--runs for the door.

Ramirez is on her before she reaches the knob. A moment

later, a SKINNY GOON enters...

They drag Sophia, kicking and screaming out of the room.

INT. BEDROOM - MOMENTS LATER

The Skinny Goon holds Sophia down, his hand clamped

firmly over her mouth, as she screams bloody murder at
the son of bitch.

Ramirez stands over a candle...

CLOSE ON CANDLE:

A bubbling clear mixture on a blackened spoon. The tip

of a syringe enters the frame...

Sophia’s eyes go wide in horror as Ramirez approaches

with the syringe. The motherfucker is going to shoot her
up with Heroin.

The Syringe clamped between his teeth, he wrestles one of

her arms--ties it off and slaps a vein.

Furious tears pour from her eyes as she goes limp. No

use. She can’t stop this.

The needle goes in. The plunger goes down.

 26.

The Skinny Goon takes his hand from her mouth. She gasps-
-eyes roll back into her head. Her body goes limp.

Ramirez lays her on the bed--strokes her hair lovingly,

as she the breath comes in and out of her open mouth with
the moans.

RAMIREZ
Shh...

She smiles.

It ain’t her fault.

INT. PRISON VISITOR ROOM - DAY

On Youngblood’s side of the glass this time--he sighs

like he just shot Old Yeller.

His story finished.

Miller hangs up the phone. Tries to very hard cork the

volcano within him. Seethes.

He pulls Youngblood’s eyes down to his finger, resting

against the glass partition.

Miller tosses a glance over his shoulder...

That fucker Aramis watches closely from twenty feet away.

And this quick look-see, just set his Spidey Sense off.

ARAMIS
What are you up to?

CLOSE ON MILLER’S HAND:

A fingernail taps on the glass partition. A SPASTIC tap

that means Miller possesses absolutely zero rhythm, or...

It’s MORSE CODE.

Youngblood watches/listens intently.

Miller throws another glance at Aramis. Closer. Eyeing

him suspiciously.

Breaks Miller’s concentration. He fucks up.

YOUNGBLOOD
Didn’t get it. What..?

Miller taps again. Faster. Feverishly.

WITH ARAMIS:
 27.

Just knows something is up. Can sense it. He runs the

last two steps to Miller and sees...

Nothing out of the ordinary.

WITH YOUNGBLOOD:

Aramis looks at Miller--his hands are folded innocently

in front of him.

MILLER
Problem, asshole?

Aramis aims a cooked glare at Youngblood.

He flips him off with both barrels, served with a side of

toothy smile.

Aramis pulls Miller up by the collar--drags him away.

Visit over.

Youngblood watches them go, his eyes and Miller’s

locked...

MILLER
Don’t let me down.

Youngblood nods heavily--weight of he world.

He pulls his jacket from the back of the chair--we see

something familiar peek out from under the sleeve of his
shirt.

A faded tattoo of an ornate banner with a single word...

RANGER.

INT. SOLITARY CONFINEMENT - TIME UNKNOWN

Dark and small. Four walls. A rack. A sink. A

flickering light in the ceiling is on its last leg.

A SOUND.

A series of unrelenting small thumps, hammering like a

second hand with metronome precision.

WE FIND Miller in a corner. Wearing nothing but Boxer

shorts. The body before us is bigger. More cut. More
muscular.

Been putting his time to good use.

One of Miller’s eyes is swollen shut and black--the price

for pissing off Aramis. That’s not surprising.
 28.

Expected, really.

What is surprising is that Miller...

IS PUNCHING THE SOLID BRICK WALL.

Fists, raw and glistening with blood, pound away at the

solid brick and cement.

Conditioning.

Like Kung Fu Monks toughening their bones by repeatedly

punching trees or solid wood planks. Just this side of
hard enough to break anything. Methodical.

Each hit wince inducing, for him and us. From the look
of that circle of smeared blood on the lime green wall,
he’s been doing this for hours.

This has to fucking hurt.

He doesn’t care.

Miller cracks his bloody knuckles--paces.

Back and forth. Like a lion in a cage.

Rage aching to be set free, as surely as his body aches

to be free of this place.

Miller grabs the rack, lifts it over his head, and SLAMS
it against the wall with a ROAR of impotent fury.

Again.

And, again.

And...again.

The echo dies. Silence returns.

And, everything is exactly as it was--nothingness.

Panting and very still, Miller lifts his face to an

imaginary sun--just as we saw The Old Man do earlier.

MILLER
I’m comin’ Sophia.

Calmly. Quietly. Miller resumes his conditioning.

Pounding on that solid wall...

Savoring the pain.

 29.

EXT. DETROIT RIVER PIER - NIGHT

Ramirez stares at the tiny Engagement Ring ruefully--he

flicks it into the water like a mere cigarette butt.

A moment passes, before Savick and a Goon carry a BODY

into the frame.

It’s Kent.

A bullet hole in his head--a cement block tied to his

ankle.

Ramirez walks away, as a SPLASH fills the air.

INT. APARTMENT BUILDING PENTHOUSE - DAY (PRESENT DAY)

The Old Man shuffles through the kitchen.

Shaking hands open cabinet doors. Open. Slam. Open.

Looking. Hunting like his life depended on it.

Finally, he spots his quarry--a bottle of Scotch

He pours two fingers neat--pouring a second round before

he’s even got the tumbler back on the counter.

Scared absolutely shitless.

He’s halfway through the third pour before his nerves

finally arrive in the neighborhood of merely freaking
out.

A SOUND BEHIND HIM.

Freezes. Clenches his jaw. Closes his watery old eyes.

Ready to face the Devil himself, The Old Man turns.

No one there.

OLD MAN
Acting like a Little Girl. Calm
down...

Turning up his glass, he downs the rest of the scotch.

Feeling better. Panic subsiding. He chuckles again...

Till, he notices that damned SCRAP BOOK sitting on the

counter.

Sucks the fucking air right out of his lungs.

A headline screams:

“MANHUNT FOR ESCAPED CONVICT JOHN MILLER”

 30.

The Old Man steadies himself against a counter--eyes

darting.

He backs away. Shakes his head--hauls ass out of the

kitchen.

A BEAT after he has left...

CLOSE ON SCRAP BOOK:

As the headline stares us in the eye, sunlight from an

open window throws a shadow.

A human shadow oozes over the open book...

INT. PRISON CELL BLOCK - DAY (1970’S)

Harsh fluorescent overhead lights cast a similar shadow,

but longer, down the walkway.

It’s Aramis The Guard.

Mail call--a stack of envelopes in his hand.

Aramis stops at the cell of a MEAN LOOKIN’ DUDE--waves a

letter between the bars. But, just as the Mean Lookin’
Dude reaches for it, Aramis yanks it away.

Asshole.

Aramis nods at something in the cell.

The Prisoner has a bag of JOLLY RANCHER hard candy, and

Aramis wants it.

INT. MILLER’S CELL - DAY

Back to the bars, Miller lifts a trash bag half filled

with water--make shift weights. His biceps bulge. His
chest is cut.

This man has been working out like a maniac.

Aramis stops behind him, bag of pilfered candy in hand.

The insufferable bastard whistles like he was calling a

dog. Miller doesn’t acknowledge his presence.

Aramis throws a handful of candy at Miller--Jolly

Ranchers THWACK into the back of his head and crack off
the walls.

Like getting hit with rocks.

Calmly, Miller puts his water weights down--walks to the

bars, oozing MENACE.
 31.

Aramis makes the “Oh, I’m soooo scared” face.

Miller looks up and down the walkway.

MILLER
Alone, huh?

He jerks Aramis into the hard steel bars forehead first.

KLANG.

Yanks a RED ENVELOPE out of Aramis’s hand--releases him

before the Guard can even let out a yelp. Fast.

Aramis wipes the blood away from his just acquired gash--
makes sure no other Guards around, and levels a promising
finger at Miller.

ARAMIS
(hisses)
Tonight.

Miller watches him go.

MILLER
Yeah...tonight.

Pops a Jolly Rancher into his mouth, and opens the RED
ENVELOPE.

INT. BEDROOM - DAY

Sophia is a mess.

Long gone is the beautiful woman we saw before.

Too thin. Eyes sunken. Dark under the eyes. She’s a

full fledged JUNKIE. Horrific tracks, half-infected, run
up her arms.

Visible as she slams a suitcase onto the bed. Shaky bony

fingers play hell getting it open.

Sophia grabs clothes. Doesn’t matter which ones. Any

will do...

WE GO TO THE WINDOW:

Down in the courtyard, Mercedes 400 SKIDS to a stop.

WITH SOPHIA:

She hears--eyes go wide in horror. She picks up the

pace...
 32.

Can barely keep herself together, as she empties the

contents of a drawer into the suitcase.

A photo of her and Ramirez on the dresser--the woman she

was stares at her. Sophia throws it against a wall with
all her might, and tries to close the suitcase latches.

It’s like her fingers are snakes. Uncooperative snakes

tweaked on Bennys.

Her fingers slip. Slide. Miss. It’s painful to watch

such a simple task so difficult.

CLICK CLICK.

Finally.

She turns on her heel, and...

Finds Ramirez leaning against the door frame, blocking

her exit.

For a red hot second, there’s a flicker of the Sophia we

saw on Christmas--she’s still in there, inside this
twitching scarecrow of a woman.

Ramirez pulls out a baggie of powder from a

pocket...HEROIN.

Dangles it like he was toying with a cat.

Sophia shuts her eyes tight, like a vampire attempting to

resist at a blood drive. Nostrils flared and struggling.

Trying.

The suitcase slides from her hand.

Shakes her head, but takes a step forward anyway. Can’t

stop it. Part of her screams NO.

A tiny part.

Ramirez caresses her cheek. Shoves her to her knees.

Her jaw sets, one last flash of Sophia--like she’s about

to punch this son of a bitch squarely in the crotch.

Ramirez grabs her face--smears the giggle dust all over

her lips.

Before our eyes the struggle leaks right out of her.

She’s kissing the last vestige of dignity she had
goodbye.

And she’s fully aware of it.

 33.

She unbuckles his belt...

INT. SHITTY APARTMENT - DAY

CLOSE ON:

Someone is BUCKLING a belt.

A leather duty belt--like a Cop might wear. Or...

PULL BACK:

Athos secures his night stick--checks his sideburns in

the mirror.

Pleased that he is, in fact, God’s greatest gift to

women, he grabs his keys--makes for the door across ankle
deep shag carpeting.

EXT. SHITTY APARTMENT - MOMENTS LATER

Athos makes for a pimp-a-rific Chrysler Cordoba--almost

has a stroke when he spots some jagoff laying on the
hood.

THE CLERK from the Convenience Store--another man about

whom we’ve probably made some incorrect assumptions.

His name is SINGH--he hand rolls a cigarette, ignores

Athos.

ATHOS
What...the...fuck..?

Arms spread wide in the international sign for “What the

hell, man?”, Athos goes for Singh.

Never even gets close.

Youngblood slides from behind a car and bashes the fucker

with a baseball bat. Drops him like sack of hammers.

Singh lights his smoke--blows a few rings. Clearly

visible on his caramel skin is an ornate banner and a
single word...

RANGER.

INT. MILLER’S CELL - DAY

Miller sits at the tiny shelf protruding from a wall that

passes for a desk/table in a cell.

With a sliver of pencil, he circles what seem to be

random letters in the hand written note. On a clean
sheet of paper, Miller scribbles.
 34.

“AB BA BBAA ABAA...”

The letter in the Red Envelope contains a code--Miller

deciphers it before our eyes.

He sets about translating the “AB” code. Glimpses.

Flashes of words. Peeks at the content of the message...

“2200 HOURS”

“GUARD SHIFT CHANGE”

“PROCEED CAUTIOUSLY”

“BE WAITING”

Miller pulls apart at the Red Envelope at the seams--

flattens it out.

On what was the inside of the envelope, he shades with

his pencil revealing another secret...

A MAP.

Indented into the paper, is a detailed layout of the

prison--each stroke of pencil lead reveals more and more
before our eyes...

INT. WAREHOUSE - DAY

Filthy broken windows allow just enough sunlight in to

almost keep the shadows at bay.

Almost.

Athos, in nothing but boxer shorts, is tied to a chair--

passed out. He has had the living daylights whipped out
of him.

Singh wipes blood off a 3 foot length of GARDEN HOSE--

tosses it on a table nonchalantly, and retrieves a
notebook of handwritten notes.

ACROSS WAREHOUSE:

Porthos sits at a table, likewise thrashed to within an

inch of his life, but still conscious. A CAR BATTERY on
the table next to him, complete with JUMPER CABLES.

The other end of the cables are clamped onto Porthos’s

big toes.

A sniveling mess. Way past crying. Utter regression.

Shaky hands put the finishing touches on A MAP. The

exact Prison layout we just saw Miller reveal.
 35.

Youngblood pats Porthos on the head like a good boy--

takes the map...

Under it is the open RED ENVELOPE--the pressure of

Porthos’s pencil has imprinted the drawing into the
envelope paper.

Youngblood folds the Red paper back into the shape of an

envelope--glues the seams. The occasional look of
derision thrown Porthos’ way when the whimpering sobs get
too loud.

Pitiless.

Judge, Jury, and soon to be Executioner.

Youngblood hands the envelope to Singh, who composes the

letter Miller was reading, hefts a .357 Revolver.

SOBS echo.

EXT. STREET - DAY

Singh strolls towards a graffiti tagged MAILBOX on the

corner--the Warehouse in the background behind him.

A FLASH in one of its dark windows.

Another.

MUZZLE FLASHES we can’t hear over the din of industrial

traffic.

Singh drops the RED ENVELOPE into the Mailbox, and

strolls away whistling.

INT. MILLER’S CELL - NIGHT

Miller strikes a match--burns the Red Envelope, the

Letter inside, and the deciphered message.

Goes up quick, leaving only fluttering shards of

blackened paper, which he crushes into powder and blows
away.

He turns his attention to a disposable razor--breaks it

and pulls out the two tiny razors in the head, as he
looks through the cell bars to ensure the coast is clear.

It is.

Miller kneels next the electrical outlet in the wall--

using the pencil shard, he gingerly pushes a razor into
each of the vertical slots of the outlet.
 36.

Unbuttoning his Old School prison dungarees, Miller rips

the zipper out by the seams and lays it across the
protruding razors...

A BLUE SPARK arcs--shocks the shit out of him.

Shakes it off--gathers the JOLLY RANCHERS Aramis pelted

him with. Tosses one his mouth and very carefully sits
several on the zipper. In seconds, they’re SIZZLING.

Quickly, Miller digs into a BAR OF SOAP with the brittle

handle of the broken disposable razor...

INT. MILLER’S CELL - LATER

CLOSE ON OUTLET:

The metal teeth are red with heat--blackened with burnt

sugar...

Melting Jolly Ranchers drip into a knife shaped cast

carved into TWO BARS OF SOAP.

Miller blows across the fast hardening goo--breaks apart

the Soap Bar cast.

He inspects the HARD CANDY SHIV--drags the edges across

the rough concrete floor a few times, whetstone style--
gives it edges.

Time for a test.

He plunges the shiv into his mattress--slices a three

foot gash like butter. Perfect.

Miller sits in the middle of the floor--closes his eyes.

Calm. Still.

A sadness on him that weighs a ton--turns his face

Heavenward.

MILLER
I tried.

CLACK. CLACK. CLACK.

Lights out--plunged into near darkness.

A silent moment. Then...

The FOOTSTEPS come. Louder. Closer. Unavoidable.

A SILHOUETTE stops in front of the bars, nightstick in

hand. Keys jingle. The lock clicks.

Aramis steps in--raises the night stick.

 37.

An awful sound, wet and brutal. Aramis GURGLES. Gasps.

WE’RE HEARING the sounds of a man dying from being

stabbed in the throat. There’s absolutely nothing
satisfying about it.

Thrashes. The scuffle of boots on concrete. The

CHOKING. The rustling of clothes. Then...

The Silence.

INT. OUTSIDE MILLER’S CELL - MOMENTS LATER

Miller exits cell, earing Aramis’s uniform.

He wipes his bloody hands on the uniform, which is

already wet with blood--the dark color conceals the
stains.

Hat pulled low, Miller beats feet down the walk way.

EXT. PRISON - NIGHT

A familiar nondescript sedan pulls into the prison

parking lot--stops next to Aramis’ Z28.

INT. SEDAN - CONTINUOUS

It’s Savick.

He glances at Aramis’ Camaro--reaches into his jacket and

retrieves THREE ENVELOPES.

Checks the contents of each--a few crisp hundred dollar

bills. Payroll for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.

INT. PRISON HALLWAY - NIGHT

Miller is just another employee--draws no attention.

Passes a couple of RANDOM GUARDS. Nods are exchanged.

They don’t look twice.

Miller smiles.

His cool is shot to shit as he rounds a corner--a GUARD

OFFICE with a barred door ahead. The OFFICE GUARD
watches a ball game on a tiny black and white TV.

Moment of truth.

Miller slides the keys off his belt--there’s about twenty

of them.

He looks at the lock. He looks at the multitude keys.

 38.

MILLER
Shit.

He tries a key. No dice. Another. A third. No luck.

The Office Guard stirs. Miller tries not to look. Tries

another key feverishly.

He’s tapped on the shoulder. Winces...

It’s YOUNGBLOOD. Sporting Athos’s Uniform. The real

Office Guard out cold on the floor, crumpled under the
counter.

Miller grabs his pounding heart--flips Youngblood off.

INT. PRISON VISITOR PROCESSING - CONTINUOUS

Savick hands his gun to the BEARDED GUARD behind the

glass--signs himself in.

A BUZZ clicks open the door--he enters the Prison

proper...

INT. PRISON HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

WITH MILLER & YOUNGBLOOD:

They approach another barred door and Guard Office.

No problem. Youngblood has the right key from Athos’

pilfered key ring.

TRACKING WITH MILLER & YOUNGBLOOD:

So far, so good.

Calm and cool--walking quickly, they round a corner...

Miller bumps into Savick!

Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t say “sorry”.

They keep their heads low and keep going. Miller’s eyes
“Oh, Shit” wide--resisting the urge to bolt for it.

Savick never saw his face--just arms wide in disbelief.

SAVICK
Frickin’ jerks...

TRACKING WITH SAVICK:

Shaking his head, he doesn’t notice the front of his

shirt IS SMEARED WITH ARAMIS’ BLOOD.
 39.

A dozen steps later, a GUARD OFFICER exits a bathroom in

front of him.

Smeared blood on the light shirt gets attention. Savick

follows his gaze...

EXT. STREET OUTSIDE PRISON - NIGHT

Athos’ Chrysler Cordoba across the street--parallel with

the prison fences.

INT. CORDOBA - CONTINUOUS

Singh blows cigarette smoke out the window, as the

haunting NIGHTS IN WHITE SATIN by the Moody Blues blares
on the stereo...

“Gazing at people, some hand in hand”

“Just what I'm going through they can't understand”

“Some try to tell me, thoughts they cannot defend”

“Just what you want to be, you will be in the end”

“And I love you, yes I love you”

“Oh how I love you...”

Singh eyes the prison--concentric rows of eighteen foot

tall chainlink fences with concertina wire between.

He takes a relaxed drag from his smoke. Confident.

Till, the PRISON ALARM BLARES--a deafening klaxon.

Singh frowns.

TURNS UP the radio.

INT. MILLER’S CELL - CONTINUOUS

Savick and a HANDFUL OF GUARDS stare at the dead body of

Aramis...

INT. PRISON VISITOR PROCESSING - CONTINUOUS

Youngblood knocks The Bearded Guard across the floor.

Miller hits the BUZZ LOCK--they haul ass.

EXT. PRISON ENTRANCE - CONTINUOUS

Miller and Youngblood exit--ain’t home free yet.

 40.

Thirty yards of walkway across the yard to a large STONE

GATE ARCH in the fence perimeter. The Gate Arch has huge
metal doors to seal off the Prison.

Huge metal doors that are slowly closing.

MILLER
Don’t run.

SEARCH LIGHTS from Guard Towers carve through the night,

illuminating the yard like a football field.

Faster. The Gate closing. TOWER GUARD guns sweep.

MILLER
Do. Not. Run...

Miller senses the eyes behind him. He turns...

Savick. Who reaches for his gun--ain’t there. He

checked it in.

Miller and Youngblood RUN.

Savick SHOUTS and waves at the Guard Towers--gestures

wildly and points. Can’t be heard over the klaxon alarm.

TRACKING WITH MILLER AND YOUNGBLOOD:

They’ll never make it. The door is closing too fast.

But, through the closing space between the doors,

headlights are coming.

Fast.

INT. CORDOBA - CONTINUOUS

Singh stomps the accelerator, racing the closing doors--

THE MOODY BLUES still blaring from the stereo.

Buckles his seat-belt. Flicks his smoke out the window.

And...

...presses the car’s cigarette lighter.

WITH MILLER AND YOUNGBLOOD:

Running for all they’re worth. Guards poor out of the

door behind Savick. Tower Guards get a clue--spotlights
race towards our boys...

And Singh coming dead at Miller and Youngblood at 50 MPH.

 41.

No way he’ll stop if he makes it through. He’ll run them

over. Man vs. Car game of chicken--metal gates in
between.

Still closing...

WITH SINGH IN CORDOBA:

On top of the doors. Seven feet of space between them.

No way.

Singh bumps the car into neutral, cuts the wheel, and
stomps the emergency brake.

The world WHIRLS.

EXT. PERIMETER GATE - CONTINUOUS

The Cordoba goes 180 with a perfect bootlegger turn--ass

end SLAMS into the metal gate at the last possible
instant.

CLANG. The doors slam shut on the ass of the Cordoba,

crumpling it like tinfoil, but holding them open.

Miller and Youngblood, never slowing, leap onto the trunk

and over the car, as the still grinding doors rupture the
gas tank...

WITH SINGH:

Calmly watches his buddies run over the windshield and

down the hood--the first BULLETS ZING BY.

PLINK.

The Cigarette Lighter pops.

EXT. PERIMETER GATE - CONTINUOUS

Singh tosses the RED HOT Cigarette Lighter under the car,
and walks away.

Casually.

The gas ignites. Twenty gallons of gasoline--a six foot

wall of fire.

WITH SAVICK:

No one is going to run through that. No one can shoot

due to the metal doors. The Guard Towers face inwards.

He seethes.
 42.

EXT. PARKING LOT - CONTINUOUS

Aramis’s Z28 Camaro burns rubber into the night.

INT. APARTMENT BUILDING PENTHOUSE - (PRESENT DAY)

The Old Man knocks over lamps. Books from shelves.

Every piece of furniture has it out for him.

INT. PENTHOUSE STUDY - CONTINUOUS

Slamming ornate wooden doors behind him, The Old Man

backs towards a wooden desk you could sail across the
Pacific.

Never taking his eyes from the doors, he opens a desk

drawer--pulls a REVOLVER.

Panting. Hands trembling. He aims at the door--sits in

the leather chair.

Silence.

Just his labored breathing.

His free hand goes to close the drawer--glances down.

He’s immediately shocked to his feet.

In the drawer is a yellowed NEWS PAPER CLIPPING.

HEADLINE: “WAR ZONE: DOZENS DEAD.”

A front page photo of fire. Cops. Fire Engines.

FOOTSTEPS. Someone is coming.

The knobs on the ornate doors move. He aims the gun...

FADE TO:

INT. RAMIREZ’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

The phone rings on a night stand.

And, rings.

Ramirez, alone, wipes the sleep from his eyes. Knocks

over half the stuff on the night stand groping for the
phone.

He knocks that over, too.

EXT. STREET CORNER PHONE BOOTH- NIGHT

Savick is an island of light in a PHONE BOOTH on an

otherwise darkened corner.
 43.

Impatiently waits for someone to answer--bundle of

nerves.

INT. RAMIREZ’S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

Ramirez picks up the phone receiver from the floor...

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND (BACK YARD) - CONTINUOUS

CLOSE ON PHONE JUNCTION BOX:

Phone line wires dangle. Cleanly cut.

INT. STREET CORNER PHONE BOOTH - CONTINUOUS

Savick stares at the receiver. The DO-RE-MI of a Ma Bell

ERROR MESSAGE...

ERROR MESSAGE
If you’d like to make a call...

Savick bolts from the phone booth.

INT. RAMIREZ’S BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

Ramirez hangs up, annoyed--plays like a crank call for

him.

Groggy, he dons the robe and slippers.

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND - NIGHT

TWO GOONS in cheap suits lean on either side of the metal

gate--eyes wide and ready for anything.

Wait.

Something’s wrong here. Unnatural.

They never blink.

CLOSE ON GUARDS:

Eyes wide and fixed. DEAD.

TREE LIMBS, up the back of jackets, keep them upright.

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND (COURTYARD) - CONTINUOUS

Another GOON floats face down in the massive courtyard

fountain.

ALONG HEDGED WALL:

The Skinny Goon slides up to thick hedges that line the

inner courtyard wall.
 44.

Lights a smoke. Unzips his pants. Nature’s call.

SHADOWS IN THE HEDGES COME ALIVE--he’s pulled into the

branches. Gone. Silently.

Only a thin fingers of cigarette smoke remain.

EXT. STREET - NIGHT

An Unmarked Sedan speeds through traffic--RED BUBBLE

LIGHT flashing on the roof.

Behind it are half a dozen CITY POLICE CARS. Likewise

lit up and racing.

INT. UNMARKED SEDAN - CONTINUOUS

Savick doesn’t pretend to give a damn about the

pedestrians and civilians that get in his way.

Steers with one hand--pushes shotgun shells into a Riot

Gun across his lap with the other.

INT. RAMIREZ’S LIVING ROOM- NIGHT

The coffee table is a Junkie’s Paradise. Horse. Foil.

The spoon. Matches and candles.

Sophia is passed out on the floor. Her arm is still tied

off--a needle hangs from it. Didn’t even get the syringe
out of her vein before she went down.

Maybe she didn’t care.

She looks dead.

Ramirez enters and...panics.

He leaps over the couch and drops to his knees beside her-
-checks for a pulse.

Sighs relief.

Ramirez unties her arm--pulls out the needle. He brushes

the hair from her face--wipes the drool from her mouth.

This is love in his twisted way.

Gently, Ramirez picks her up. Her head lolls against his
shoulder. He kisses her forehead and carries her out.

INT. RAMIREZ’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Ramirez lays Sophia in bed--covers her as her eyes

flutter open.
 45.

They never focus. Her eyes roll--back out she goes.

Trapped in her own head.

Ramirez’s lips purse--she was so beautiful. Tell tale

signs of regret cloud his face.

RAMIREZ
I’m sorry.

INT. KITCHEN - NIGHT

Ramirez is lost in thought--that faraway stare when your

mind is miles away from what your hands are going...

Which, in this case, is preparing a sandwich.

A plate. Slices of bread...

INT. RAMIREZ BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS

Singh and Youngblood try to rouse Sophia. She stirs,

coming to something that could loosely be called
conscious.

Youngblood pulls back the covers. The tracks. Her gaunt

body. Her sunken eyes.

They share a disgusted look. Angry for her.

INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS

Ramirez is shoulders deep in the Fridge.

IN FRIDGE:

Mustard. Meat. Lettuce. Is this mayonnaise still good?

Seeing nothing else that trips his trigger, Ramirez
closes the Fridge door, and...

Comes face to face with Miller.

Like a Ghost, he’s just there.

A lingering moment--Ramirez frozen in shock. Miller

savors his fear. Long time comin’. There’s a baseball
bat in his hand. Knuckles whiten around it.

Ramirez drops the sandwich stuff. Miller knocks the son

of a bitch across the kitchen.

This is not going to be fast or painless.

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND (COURTYARD) - NIGHT

Youngblood and Singh walk Sophia across the courtyard.

She’s still out of it, but at least she’s upright.
 46.

INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS

Ramirez’s face is bloody--crawling away from Miller, who

boots him in the ribs again. Miller realizes too late,
Ramirez ain’t trying to get away.

He’s going for the knife he dropped.

Just as Miller lifts the baseball bat to deliver the Coup

de Grace, Ramirez stabs Miller’s thigh.

In a split second, certain revenge has turned into a

sincere struggle.

Ramirez grabs the baseball bat--tries to wrestle it away.

Miller head butts him repeatedly.

Ramirez bites hard enough to draw blood.

This ain’t a Hollywood fight. This is what a real brawl

looks like. Eye gouging. Biting. Head butting.

Miller’s military training vs. Ramirez’s street earned

badassness.

Neither is concerned with protecting himself, only

killing the other son of a bitch.

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND (COURTYARD) - CONTINUOUS

Youngblood hears them first.

SIRENS.

Coming fast.

Shit.

Their eyes go back to the Mansion. Miller.

INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS

Ramirez and Miller squared off. Knife vs. Bat, as Sirens

fade in.

Ramirez smiles-- TIRES SCREECH outside. The Calvary is

here. He dares Miller to make his move.

Hatred vs. Freedom. The decision rips Miller in two.

Miller backs away. Runs for it.

 47.

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND - NIGHT

Savick and his COPS make for the front gate of the
compound. Locked tight.

They climb over...

INT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND (COURTYARD) - CONTINUOUS

Youngblood and Singh wave Miller in. Hurry up.

In that moment, Sophia sees Miller running towards and a

little bit clarity seeps into her mind.

Can’t believe her eyes.

Miller runs into her track covered arms and kisses her.
She’s barely aware of what the hell is going on.

But this she knows--these arms are where she belongs.

Singh and Youngblood drag them towards a back wall, as

Savick and The Cops come over the front gate.

AT BACK WALL:

Singh is a cat, on top of the eight-foot wall on the

quick. Pulls Youngblood up...

EXT. RAMIREZ’S MANSION - CONTINUOUS

Ramirez storms out the front door.

Spitting blood, he pulls a REVOLVER from the holster of a

dead Goon on the ground.

AT BACK WALL:

Sophia grabs the hands of Singh and Youngblood--Miller

pushes from below.

She’s weak.

Her grip slips.

Miller glances over his shoulder--Ramirez with the gun.

He pushes her up again.

WITH RAMIREZ:

He aims at Miller--cocks the hammer. Dead in his sights.

Impossible to miss.

AT BACK WALL:
 48.

Sophia slips.

Miller catches her.

BAM!

WITH RAMIREZ:

Frozen.

Horror.

The smoking gun falls from his hand, as Savick and The
Cops approach.

Unwilling to accept what he sees, Ramirez shakes his head

defiantly.

Slow unsteady steps become a run.

AT BACK WALL:

Ramirez falls to his knees beside Sophia.

There’s a bullet wound in her back.

He pulls her across his lap. A bloody exit wound in her

chest.

Where her heart is.

Was.

Dead.

EXT. RAMIREZ’S MANSION - LATER

No crime scene tape.

No cops other than Savick and the ones he arrived with

earlier.

Ramirez watches Sophia’s sheet covered body wheeled by.

WE FOLLOW THE BODY:

Ramirez recedes.

We’re loaded into a Coroner’s Van.

The doors SLAM SHUT.

Through the rear windows, WE SEE an irate Savick approach

Ramirez--pissed.

Gestures wildly. Points at us in the van.

 49.

SAVICK
I can’t cover your ass anymore.

Ramirez protests.

Does no good.

WITH RAMIREZ:

Savick storms away. Relationship terminated.

The engine cranks up in the Coroner’s Van, jerking

Ramirez’s attentions away from Savick.

He watches it drive away...

INT. RAMIREZ’S MANSION - NIGHT

Ramirez closes the door behind him--wipes his face.

Steps in something. DIRT. Lines of dirt on the marble

floor.

WE PULL UP:

The lines are shapes. Letters.

Ramirez stands in the midst of a message: “TILL YOU BURY

HER.”

INT. Z28 - NIGHT

Youngblood drives. Singh in back.

Miller stares out the passenger window.

No one has the words.

Just the GROWL of the engine.

Passing street lamps splash light on the shadows across

Miller’s face in metronome pulses.

He brings his hands into the passing lights--covered

Sophia’s blood.

He rubs the blood over his face. Caressing. Smearing.

Loving...

This is the closest he’ll ever be to her for the rest of

his life. This moment. Her blood.

Swallow it.

Bury it.
 50.

Kill them all.

EXT. CEMETARY - DAY

We’re among the gravestones.

Atop a small hill, not far away, PEOPLE are gathered.

Not many.

EXT. GRAVESIDE - CONTINUOUS

The PRIEST closes his Bible. Ramirez crosses himself.

He looks like hell--bloodshot and glassy eyes.

Hasn’t slept in days.

ON THE OTHERS PRESENT:

Dark glasses. Constant head movements, looking to and

fro. Everyone here is a DIRTY COP or a paid GOON. All
protecting Ramirez.

He and the Priest are the only ones here for Sophia.

She’s still isolated.

Still alone.

Even in death.

Ramirez tosses a handful of dirt on the coffin in the

grave.

Ramirez stares at his hands. Dirt.

Grave dirt.

He can’t wipe it off fast enough. It don’t let go. It

sticks to his skin.

Like sin.

Like death.

Like the dirt of a not-yet-dug grave coming for him

already.

EXT. WAREHOUSE - DAY

Singh is covered in grime and sweat.

He rakes a trowel along the RUSTED SKIN of the

dilapidated building--scraping rust into a five-gallon
bucket.

It’s damned near full of the stuff.

 51.

INT. WAREHOUSE - CONTINUOUS

Youngblood is hard at work.

Six double-barrelled shotguns sit on a shop table--all in

one state of modification or another.

Muscles in his arms ripple as he HACK SAWS away barrels

and saws off stocks. Effectively creating long 12-Gauge
Double-Barreled pistols.

WE MOVE past him...

Past a grinding wheel. Past the twenty garbage bags of

RC COLA and PABST aluminum cans in front of it

Past the Z28--it’s rear end on jack stands, exhaust pipes

laying next to it.

All the way to...

INT. WAREHOUSE BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS

Miller stares through the man staring at him in the grimy

broken mirror.

Passionless.

The BZZZ of clippers.

He drags them across his head--shaves it close. A

suicide of sorts. Death to the man in the mirror.
Becoming someone else.

Someone from long ago.

Head shaved Boot Camp short, he punches his reflection--

shattering it.

A reflection he never wanted to see again.

He rips the mirror fixture off the wall and throws it

into a wall. Kicks it across the floor.

Stomps it until he’s tired of stomping it.

INT. WAREHOUSE - CONTINUOUS

Miller exits the bathroom--ignores the blood dripping

from his cut hand.

Sizes up Singh--grinding up Aluminum cans for some

reason. Sparks dance.
 52.

And Youngblood--boxes of shotgun shells on the table,

reloading each one. Replacing the buckshot in the shells
with a STACK OF PENNIES.

Miller grabs two sawed off shotguns off the table. A

quick flick of the wrists, he closes the breaches and
aims them double fisted.

Two thumbs release to levers--he flicks the breaches back

open--checks the barrels.

War. Death dealing. Miller nods.

He turns his attention to the exhaust pipes from the Z28--

drilling two holes.

Into which he screws two SPARK PLUGS...

EXT. GAS STATION - DAY

Ramirez’s Mercedes is parked out front. Goons guard it.

INT. GAS STATION BATHROOM - CONTINUOUS

Ramirez scrubs his hands vigorously. The grave dirt

won’t let go.

He soaps, scrubs, and rinses again.

He pulls ten yards of paper towels--glances in the

mirror, and fucking vapor locks...

SOPHIA IS BEHIND HIM, looking over his shoulder.

Dead. Like a ghoul. Hysterical laughter with no sound.

Her body shudders in silent spasms.

Ramirez practically crawls up the wall.

But, there’s no one there.

He throws the paper towels--pulls a VIAL from his jacket.

Dumps a thick rail of COKE across the back of his hand

and hoovers it in one pass.

Courage.

Paranoia.

INT. WAREHOUSE - DAY

Singh has ground up the aluminum cans into a dust. The

rust has likewise been pounded and refined into a talcum
consistency.
 53.

He mixes the two together--pours them into an EMPTY HALF-

GALLON MILK JUG.

Youngblood tapes a ROAD FLARE to the jug--sits it with

FOUR OTHERS already prepared.

Aluminum powder and Iron Oxide (rust), properly mixed,

create THERMITE.

Across the Warehouse, we find Miller under the hood of

Aramis’ Z28.

He connects a two wires to the ALTERNATOR.

WE FOLLOW THE WIRES:

Into the cockpit of the car, where they are connected to

a simple switch taped to the gear shift.

From the gear shift, the wires continue through the floor
board, under the car...

Where they split--each connected to two SPARK PLUGS

drilled into each of the dual exhaust pipes of the car.

INT. RAMIREZ’S MANSION LIVING ROOM - DAY

Three GOONS trade looks.

Muffled VOICES in the next room, behind closed doors.

Two men. We can’t make out what they’re saying.

But things are heated. The door is swung violently open.

Savick storms out--shaking his head. Ramirez follows,

none too happy.

SNAPS his fingers before Savick makes it to the front

door.

A Goon blocks Savick’s way, another retrieves a large

suitcase and tosses it onto the coffee table.

Ramirez unzips the suitcase--steps away.

RAMIREZ
It’s all yours.

It’s full of money.

A couple million in cash. Easy.

Ramirez holds it out for Savick. He’s scared.

Terrified. Can’t hide it. Ramirez pleads with eyes as
glassy as marbles.
 54.

Savick weighs options.

Wrestles.

Deal with The Devil at The Crossroads.

He takes the suitcase and makes for the door.

The Devil smiles.

EXT. CEMETARY - NIGHT

The moon is full.

Quiet and peaceful. Gravestones under the starry sky.

Only thing out of place is THE POLICE CAR parked under a

tree. Bushes and tree limbs placed on it and in front of
it...

Automotive incognito.

TWO OFFICERS in the car keep an eye on the top of a small

nearby hill.

A single lonely headstone...

INT. POLICE CAR - CONTINUOUS

One of The Officers yawns.

Long night.

The other JERKS upright--he sees something. A silhouette

approaches the lonely headstone.

Miller.

The Officers pull Revolvers--jump out of the car...

EXT. POLICE CAR - CONTINUOUS

And come face to face with sawed off Double-Barreled

shotguns.

One second later, both are out cold on the grass.

Youngblood and Singh watch Miller in the distance--

visible under the full moon’s light. Turn away out of
respect.

We don’t.

He kneels at Sophia’s headstone and speaks.

 55.

Too far away to hear what he’s saying, but we can hear
his voice. Ain’t hard to guess the words.

WITH MILLER:

The moon’s light throws a gravestone’s shadow across half

his face.

Said all he has to say.

He digs fingers into the fresh grave dirt--smears it

under his eyes.

War paint.

Miller picks up his shotguns and walks away.

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND - NIGHT

A fucking fortress.

Six POLICE CARS surround it.

DIRTY COPS stroll up and down the streets along the block
perimeter.

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND (COURTYARD) - CONTINUOUS

Every lowlife and thug in Detroit with nothing else to do

is here.

There has to be FORTY GOONS, all armed.

Above them all, is Ramirez--overlooking the courtyard

from a balcony.

INT. STUDY - CONTINUOUS

Ramirez turns away from the balcony, looking like warmed

over death. There’s no way the man slept in days.

He hits the Bolivian Marching Powder on his desk--only

thing keeping him going.

Teeth gnash. Fingers dance over the pearl grip of the

revolver in his belt.

He paces.

Savick, seated in a corner, watches with disgust--glances

at his watch.

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND - CONTINUOUS

Along the block perimeter with the Police Cars again.

 56.

But, something’s different this time...

A MANHOLE COVER is off--as if someone recently came out

of it.

No Dirty Cops strolling, that is what’s different.

All on the ground--dead.

Throats slit.

Singh emerges from a shadow--drops the last DEAD COP from

his arms.

He wipes a bloody blade on his pants and sheathes it.

Silent as a cat, Singh scampers to the manhole, pulls up

a rope--at the end are four of the THERMITE HALF-GALLON
MILK JUGS with taped on road flares.

He blinks a flashlight up a dark street twice.

Blocks away HEADLIGHTS reply.

INT. Z28 - CONTINUOUS

Miller behind the wheel--Youngblood in the passenger’s

seat.

Game faces on.

The Z28’s 350 V8 idles like a purring lion.

They slide penny-loaded shells into their sawed off

Shotgun Pistols.

Miller GUNS the engine once--cracks his neck.

It’s a straight shot two blocks to the metal gate of

Ramirez’s compound.

Miller drops the car into drive...

Youngblood sticks a DASHBOARD JESUS onto the dash between

them...

BEAT.

MILLER
Really?

Youngblood shrugs.

Miller STOMPS THE ACCELERATOR.

 57.

EXT. Z28 - CONTINUOUS

The rear tires smoke--the car leaps into action.

TRACKING WITH Z28:

The Camaro rips down the middle of the street. The

peripheral blurs--the tunnel effect of speed.

IN Z28:

The metal gate zooms closer and closer.

Hands tighten on the wheel.

The speedometer just blew by 80.

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND (COURTYARD) - CONTINUOUS

By the time anyone hears it, it’s too late.

The Z28 SLAMS into the metal gate, knocking the doors off
their hinges in a shower of sparks.

Goons and Dirty Cops run for their lives--most avoid

being plowed over.

Most.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the Z28 is still.

Across the courtyard, facing the outer wall--ass end to
the Bad Guys.

The ENGINE RED LINES--growls. Just sitting there and

screaming like someone has their foot on the gas in Park.

The Dirty Cops and Goons open up on the Z28...

INSIDE Z28:

Miller and Youngblood lie flat, seats reclined. Wincing

as glass showers them--bullets ZIP an inch over their
faces.

OUTSIDE Z28:

Gunfire slows to a stop. The engine is still screaming.

Cautiously, ten of the Bad Guys ease up behind the car,

guns at the ready...

INSIDE Z28:

Miller flips the switch duct taped to the gear shift.

INSIDE Z28 EXHAUST PIPES:

 58.

Electricity zips through the wires, causing the Spark

Plugs to ARC--IGNITING THE HOT EXHAUST FUMES.

OUTISIDE Z28:

Flames spew fifteen feet out of the dual exhaust of the

car--engulfing the Bad Guys moving in.

They go up SCREAMING.

Same instant...

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND - CONTINUOUS

Singh, casually smoking a cigarette, POPS the caps on the

Road Flares, and slings the THERMITE JUGS over the
wall...

EXT. RAMIREZ’S COMPOUND (COURTYARD) - CONTINUOUS

While flaming Bad Guys scream, and confusion and panic

freak out the others...

Youngblood and Miller come out of the Z28, shotguns aimed

high...

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM.

They blast the THERMITE JUGS as they sail over the

Courtyard--pennies BZZZ’ing through the air.

Shotgun blasts destroy the jugs--flares IGNITE THERMITE

in mid-air.

Powdered burning metal falls all over the Courtyard,

literally raining fire at 2500 degrees.

It burns through anything. Can’t be put out.

Men scream bloody murder as it gets on them. Fluttering

in the wind--burning dust that just hangs there.

Miller and Youngblood climb back in the car. Reverse

lights come on.

The car zooms across the courtyard, through the fiery

dust, up the steps of the mansion, and CRASHES through
the front door...

INT. RAMIREZ’S MANSION - CONTINUOUS

Youngblood and Miller are already out of the car--

Thermite dust burns through the vehicle in a thousand pin
holes...

Dripping molten metal.

 59.

Outside, the Courtyard looks like Hell. Fire in the air.

Fire on the ground. SCREAMS of The Damned.

A handful of GOONS inside race to meet Miller and

Youngblood.

They find out what twenty-five cents in pennies loaded

into a shotgun shell does to the human body.

Damned near cut in half. Short barrels disperse the

shots immediately--one blast drops three Bad Guys at ten
feet.

Miller and Youngblood reload--move on.

INT. STUDY - NIGHT

Ramirez is panicked.

The Mansion is BURNING.

Pinprick holes of burning Thermite eat through walls--

sparking fires every where.

Savick grabs him by the arm--they run out of the room.

A BEAT later...

Singh slides silently in via the balcony. The man is like

a wraith, for whom the laws of physics seem to bend.

GUNS serenade each other from deep within the house, as

Singh glides through the Study--on the hunt.

INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

Youngblood and Miller are Terminators--dropping two and

three GOONS at the time, with every blast.

Pennies WHRRR--ripping the air apart at the speed of

sound, before shredding flesh.

Youngblood takes a round in the upperchest/shoulder.

Odds. It had to happen.

He does little more than wince.

The Hallway T-bones another hall. Miller breaks left.

Youngblood right.

INT. BASEMENT - NIGHT

Savick and Ramirez look up at the floorboards above them.

Hearts in throats. Quiet. Guns aimed up.

Waiting.
 60.

WE MOVE UP, THOUGH THE BASEMENT CEILING TO...

INT. HALLWAY WITH SINGH - CONTINUOUS

On cat’s feet, Singh creeps along, while smoke fills the

air.

His steps are utterly silent.

Till, ever so slightly...

A floorboard CREAKS.

BEAT.

BAM-BAM-BAM--the floor under his feet is shredded by

bullets exploding through the wood.

Singh convulses as round after round rips into him from

below.

The bullets stop. Silence returns.

Singh collapses in a pool of his own blood.

INT. BASEMENT - CONTINUOUS

Ramirez and Savick hear the body hit the floorboards.

They reload--the tick of brass slamming into steel, and

make for the basement stairs.

INT. UPSTAIRS HALLWAY - NIGHT

Miller and Youngblood bump into each other in the thick

smoke.

Literally.

Youngblood leans against a wall to catch his breath.

BLOOD leaks down his fingers in tiny rivers.

Miller yanks Youngblood’s jacket open...

Bullet wounds. Not just the one we saw him take either.
He’s been hit at least FOUR TIMES.

Youngblood jerks his jacket closed--pushes Miller away.

He just won’t quit.

Takes a few steps...

Collapses against a wall.

 61.

Miller, again, goes to him. Once more, Youngblood pushes

his help away.

Shaking, he makes it to his feet again.

Flips Miller off with a smile.

Youngblood throws an arm around Miller to steady himself--

together they move on...

For about five steps.

Youngblood collapses to his knees. Again, he tries to

stand.

Not this time.

He falls forward on his hands and knees.

Crawls.

Refuses to succumb.

Miller drags Youngblood up the hallway, sitting.

His head lolls. Blood oozes from his mouth. Shutting

down. Like a drained battery loosing all power.

A helpless Warrior.

No blaze of Glory. No death befitting.

Life ebbs out of Youngblood before our eyes, as Miller

drags him.

Heroes rarely die a Hero’s death.

EXT. COURTYARD - NIGHT

Bodies litter the ground. The Mansion burns.

Far away, the BLARE OF SIRENS oozes into audio focus--

Fire Engines.

Ramirez, Savick, and TWO DIRTY COPS emerge from the smoke
and make for a GARAGE detached from the house.

INT. HALLWAY WITH SINGH - CONTINUOUS

The bullet holes in the floor are still there.

Singh isn’t.

A wide swath of SMEARED BLOOD stretches down the hall--

disappears into the smoke...
 62.

EXT. RAMIREZ’S MANSION - CONTINUOUS

Miller pulls Youngblood out of the flames and smoke--past

the half-melted Z28.

He closes his friend’s dead eyes.

INT. GARAGE - NIGHT

Two Mercedes 400 sedans sit at the ready--Ramirez,

Savick, and the two Dirty Cops enter via a side door.

The instant Ramirez opens the garage door--A GURGLING

SCREAM.

All turn to find one of the Dirty Cops IN THE GRIP OF

SINGH, getting his throat slit.

Horribly wounded, and bloody as a butcher, Singh lunges

for the closest man...

Savick.

Who comes out of his shocked stupor quick enough to shoot

Singh squarely in the chest.

He keeps coming.

Singh knocks the gun out of Savick’s hand--swings his

blade.

Too slow. Savick grabs his wrist. Singh is weak.

Dying, as he and Savick wrestle for the knife.

The cars roar to life, and PEEL OUT--Ramirez and the last
Dirty Cop leave Savick to his own devices...

EXT. RAMIREZ’S MANSION - CONTINUOUS

Miller watches the two Mercedes Sedans tear across the

courtyard--spots Ramirez behind the wheel of one.

Miller runs after the cars--eyes burning hatred.

INT. GARAGE - CONTINUOUS

Hands locked in mortal combat, Savick and Singh struggle

for the knife.

No use.

Not even Singh can survive this much blood loss. The
color drains from his face.

Savick doesn’t have to do anything but let go--Singh

crumbles into a heap.
 63.

Dead.

EXT. GARAGE - CONTINUOUS

Savick exits the garage just in time to spot Miller

hauling ass out of the courtyard.

Singh’s knife in his hand, Savick follows.

EXT. STREET WITH MILLER - NIGHT

Miller pounds the ground after the two Mercedes’ a block

ahead of him, while Fire Engines SCREAM by, headed to the
Mansion.

The Sedans make a turn ahead--under huge green sign says

the Interstate is that way.

Miller cuts across the street and into an alley...

INT. RAMIREZ’S CAR - NIGHT

A sign telling us the airport is this way via the

Interstate blows by.

The other Mercedes ahead of him, Ramirez checks his rear

view mirrors.

Nothing.

He laughs.

Pounds the steering wheel, rejoicing.

He got away.

EXT. STREET - NIGHT

Miller careens around a corner at full gallop--his eye is

on an APARTMENT BUILDING dead ahead.

He glances up at the top of it.

INT. BUILDING LOBBY - MOMENTS LATER

Miller pounds the lobby elevator button.

Grace of God above, the doors open right up.

He gets in, hits a button, and leans back against a wall.

Hands on knees--panting.

A moment’s rest...
 64.

Till, Savick jumps through the closing doors at the last

second--blind sides him.

DING.

Doors close.

INT. ELEVATOR - CONTINUOUS

Sawed off shotgun on the floor.

Two men.

One knife.

Locked in mortal combat inside the confines of a tiny

elevator.

Grunting. Growling. Screaming. Eye-gouging. Clawing.

Biting. Slashing...

Only one man is coming out of this box alive.

Savick gets a solid head butt in that sends Miller on his

ass.

Who grabs the sawed off--raises it. Savick grabs the

barrel, keeping it aimed low and swings the knife.

Miller blocks the thrust with his arm, and pulls the
triggers--BOTH BARRELS BLAST...

Blowing Savick’s left leg clean off at the thigh--

SPLATTERING blood everywhere.

He falls to the floor SCREAMING.

Miller stands. Panting. Bleeding. Pissed.

Watches the Savick scream.

MILLER
Suffer, motherfucker.

Crazed with agony, Savick-tries to stick his leg back on.

Slowly, very, very slowly, so he feels every centimeter

of cold steel...

Miller pushes Singh’s knife into Savick’s heart.

EXT. DETROIT - NIGHT

WHERE WE BEGAN...
 65.

A FIRE glows several blocks away. A big one. Fire

Engines and red lights. Sirens still coming.

As we move over the top of a string of Apartment

Buildings, easing along the rooftops...

MILLER RUNS RIGHT BY US.

TRACKING WITH MILLER:

His clothes are torn, blackened by fire, filth, and

blood. Cuts and scrapes bleed openly--hasn’t had time
yet to congeal since received.

His head is shaved boot camp style. His face is covered

in a dozen scars--the kind you get from deep gashes that
heal without the benefit of stitches.

There’s a pistol-grip sawed off double-barrel shotgun in

his hand, and murder in his eyes.

And over his shoulder, he carries the one-legged dead

body of Savick.

Running for all he’s worth across the top of an apartment

building, he LEAPS into the night air off the edge...

EXT. ROOF #2 - CONTINUOUS

Miller sails out of the air and lands with a BONE JARRING
THUD from the building next door--Savick tumbles and
skids.

Miller twisted an ankle.

Means nothing to him right now. If he coughed up his

spleen, it wouldn’t stop him. Not now.

Not this night.

He just growls, picks up the shotgun, and drags Savick to

the edge of the building, as the GUNNING OF ENGINES and
the SQUEALING OF TIRES ebbs into focus from below...

INT. DIRTY COP’S CAR - NIGHT

The Dirty Cop that took off with Ramirez checks his
rearview--the other Mercedes, Ramirez’s car, is right
behind him.

This guy is pretty damned with pleased with himself.

He slows down.

Gets comfortable in the seat.

 66.

Relaxes.

About then, SAVICK’S DEAD BODY CRASHES THROUGH THE

WINDSHIELD.

INT. RAMIREZ’S CAR - CONTINUOUS

Ramirez goes bug-eyed as the Mercedes in front of him

fishtails in his path.

He swerves hard to miss it...

EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS

Tires scream as brakes are locked up--an ungodly

screeching cacophony of eight tires, asphalt, and
friction.

Ramirez’s Mercedes nails a fire hydrant--stopping it on

dime and sending a geyser heavenward

A BEAT later, the fishtailing other car slams into a

telephone.

Then, quiet.

Only the sound of rushing water and a roughly idling

engine.

INT. RAMIREZ’S CAR - CONTINUOUS

Ramirez is outcold--head on the steering wheel and

bleeding.

Wavy shadows and shimmering light fill the car--effect of

water cascading over the windshield.

Ramirez stirs. Moans.

BAM--the sound of Miller blowing away the Dirty Cop in

the other car jerks Ramirez out of his blow-to-the-head
induced haze.

He squints through the shattered windshield.

A shape. A man’s silhouette in front of the car. A gun

in the shadow’s hand...

Miller.

Ramirez wipes blood out of his eyes, grips the wheel

tight, and FLOORS IT.

Miller tumbles onto the hood.

 67.

EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS

TRACKING WITH MERCEDES:

Ripping down the street, engine knocking, and picking up

speed. Miller slides all over the place, desperately
trying to hang on to both hood and gun.

He throws a look over his shoulder at where they’re

headed...

MILLER’S POV:

A cross street. A red light. A river of traffic zipping

by. Half a block away, and this car isn’t even slowing
down...

Shit.

Two options here. Both suck.

Miller raises the shotgun...

INT. RAMIREZ’S CAR - CONTINUOUS

Teeth barred in sheer hatred, Ramirez chuckles like a mad

man.

Till, a sawed-off shotgun is shoved through the

windshield into his face.

He STOMPS THE BRAKES.

EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS

Miller is thrown from the hood, directly into the midst

of the passing cars...

The Mercedes skids, ten feet from the intersection.

Pennies EXPLODE from Miller’s shotgun into the windshield

as he flies backwards...

WITH RAMIREZ:

Glass and smoking copper discs ZIIIP through the car--

shredding half his face.

WITH MILLER:

Through the air on his back, BETWEEN two passing

trucks...

Towards a passing METRO BUS...

 68.

INT. METRO BUS - CONTINUOUS

A LITTLE OLD LADY crochets as the bus chugs along.

Miller crashes through the window of the seat in front of

her--bounces off the opposite inside wall, busting that
window as well.

BEAT.

She goes back to crocheting.

While Miller writhes in pain on the seat.

INT. RAMIREZ’S CAR - NIGHT

Ramirez has his hand on the shredded half of his face,

like he’s trying to hold it on--kicks the shattered
windshield out and turns the car around.

Furious.

We stick with him as he drives.

Steam spews from under the hood and into the car through
the nonexistent windshield.

The engine knocks.

He groans in agony and rage.

Then, out of the blue, the car is rear ended HARD...

EXT. STREET - CONTINUOUS

The Metro Bus pulls alongside Ramirez’s car as it

fishtails--slamming into the side of it.

Trying to force it off the road.

INT. METRO BUS - CONTINUOUS

Miller has the shotgun aimed at the terrified DRIVER’s

head.

He grabs the wheel from the guy and slams the bus into
Ramirez again.

And again.

Ramirez is steers into it--the Mercedes pressed up

against the bus.

Matter of fact, he’s glaring at Miller through the bus

doors.
 69.

Miller aims the shotgun at the son of a bitch, and...

CLICK--empty. He already fired twice.

Livid, Miller throws the thing down, opens the bus door,
and LEAPS ONTO THE MERCEDES.

EXT. MERCEDES - CONTINUOUS

Miller scampers over the roof--crawls through the gaping

windshield area...

INT. MERCEDES - CONTINUOUS

And commences pounding the living hell out of Ramirez.

Problem is, Ramirez still has his gun--pulls it out of

his belt and FIRES.

Miller dives over the seat into the back, narrowly

avoiding the round.

Behind Ramirez now, he grabs the front seat belt, wraps

it around Ramirez’s throat, and slides it under the
seat’s head rest.

Pulls with all his might.

Ramirez gags.

He claws at the belt around his throat--steers wildly.

The car skids violently...

EXT. OVERPASS - CONTINUOUS

The Mercedes SLAMS into the overpass guard rail at the

edge at a solid 30 MPH.

The Mercedes comes to a VIOLENT and immediate stop--

throws Miller out through the glassless windshield area,
as the Mercedes teeters half over the edge.

Miller claws at the hood to stop his slide.

No dice.

The car tips.

Miller slides off...

WITH MILLER:

JUST manages to grab the front bumper, as the Mercedes

lurches over...

And stops.
 70.

The rear axle caught on guard rail metal.

Miller looks down--a twenty-five foot drop to the street

below.

INT. MERCEDES - CONTINUOUS

Ramirez struggles with the belt around his neck. It’s

caught around the back of the head rest.

He’s stuck--can’t get it off.

EXT. MERCEDES - CONTINUOUS

CLOSE ON MILLER:

It’s been a long night.

Miller tries, but he just can’t pull himself up--hasn’t

got the strength.

He tries again--damned near loses his grip.

Then, the worst possible sound you could hope to hear at

this moment...

Metal groans.

The car is going to fall.

In sheer raging panic, Miller claws at the grill and edge

of the hood. He HAS to pull himself up.

Now.

But, with a final wrenching moan, the guard rail metal

gives way...

The Mercedes goes over the edge...

Taking Miller with it.

EXT. STREET BELOW - CONTINUOUS

The Mercedes SLAMS into the ground roof first--crushing

it.

Miller hits the asphalt with a sickening thump fifteen

feet away.

He screams in ungodly agony--legs shattered, and God only

knows what else.

Battered, bloody, and literally broken, Miller looks over

at the Mercedes...
 71.

The roof is crushed down to the steering wheel. That

fucker Ramirez is dead.

Despite the pain, Miller manages a smile.

Unable to stand, not even able to crawl, his legs all but
useless, Miller drags his broken body across the asphalt
with his hands.

It’s slow. It’s agonizing--he does it through sheer will

power.

He has to see that bastard dead.

After a Herculean, blinding pain inducing effort, Miller

looks into the car...

EMPTY.

It doesn’t compute.

EXT. OVERPASS - CONTINUOUS

A hand reaches over the edge.

Another.

Ramirez pulls himself over the edge.

EXT. STREET BELOW - CONTINUOUS

Miller looks up at Ramirez looking down on him.

BEAT.

Chuckling, Ramirez walks away.

WE PULL UP:

Miller sprawled helplessly on the asphalt, the destroyed

Mercedes next to him...

HIGHER STILL:

As Ramirez walks along the overpass, walking out of the

frame.

Gone.

Miller’s voice echoes across the concrete canyon...

MILLER
No..!
 72.

The third word we’ve heard anyone utter, and Miller

screams it from the depths of his agonized soul.

FADE TO:

INT. STUDY - PRESENT DAY

The knobs on the ornate door turn...

CLICK--the latch disengages.

The Old Man stands--aims the gun with both shaking hands.

The door opens.

He cocks the hammer--fear courses through his veins.

It’s the fucking Maid with the Scrapbook--it was her

shadow oozing over it earlier.

She screams at the sight of this decrepid Old Fossil

leveling a gun at her.

The Old Man grabs his heart--she damned near killed him.

He throws a vase at her.

Cursing a blue streak en Espanol, she leaves. The Old

Man puts the gun on the desk--totters over to the door
and locks it.

Double checks the lock. Triple checks it.

Satisfied no one is coming through that door now, he

retreats to his desk--reaches for the gun he laid on the
desk.

IT ISN’T THERE.

He freezes. Confusion is stampeded by ice cold panic.

SOMEONE steps out from behind the heavy velvet curtains

framing the large window behind the desk.

A SAWED OFF SHOTGUN is placed to The Old Man’s head. He

doesn’t have to look.

THE OLD MAN

Look at me...

The Someone walks around the desk. We can see him

clearly now. Also an Old Man.

MILLER AT SIXTY-FIVE.
 73.

He sits opposite the Old Man, who has obviously been

Ramirez all along.

RAMIREZ (CONT’D)
You’re too late.
(coughs)
Hell already awaits.

No reply.

Miller opens the wheel of Ramirez’s revolver--dumps the

shells on the desk. Casually, he selects a single random
bullet--slides it into the revolver.

He spins the wheel, aims it at Ramirez’s face, and pulls

the trigger.

CLICK.

RAMIREZ
It was a long time ago. Have you
had no life?

CLICK.

RAMIREZ
Name your price. Anything. I
can...

CLICK.

Ramirez is a sweating trembling mess by now.

RAMIREZ
Please...

CLICK.

Tears well in his eyes--slides down his wrinkled face.

CLICK.

Horror wracks him at the sound.

Five clicks. Next chamber is the winner. One more pull

of the trigger...

Ramirez nods. Death imminent. Deserved. Closes his

eyes tightly, and waits for it.

CLICK.

Ramirez’s eyes open in amazement--confused to still be

alive. Miller holds the bullet between fingers.

Didn’t load it.

 74.

Ramirez chuckles.

Miller raises his shotgun.

BAM...

The Old Man is blown out of his chair. Miller doesn’t

smile. He doesn’t frown. Wasn’t for him.

We can HEAR Ramirez GASPING. A pathetic sound. Miller

walks around the desk, to find him sprawled on the floor.

CLOSE ON A BLOODY FINGER:

A shaking old finger, glistening with blood, is dragged

across the floor. Then...is still.

PULL BACK:

Before Ramirez’s lifeless body are words drawn in blood:

“I LOVED HER”

Miller reads them. Drops the gun...

MILLER
I still do.

And walks away.

FADE TO BLACK.