I gasped as we hit the stairs. The bike bucked its way up them like an angry horse, leaving a plume of blue smoke in its wake and nearly shaking me off the back. But somehow I held on. I heard another burst of rifle fire, saw chips fly from the stone steps as we raced past. But we must have been moving too erratically to make an easy target. After what seemed an eternity, we reached the top of the stairs and soared into the air. We seemed to float for one heartbeat, two . . . and then the motorcycle slammed down into the courtyard, rear tire smoking as it fought for a grip on the flagstones.