"Look, you're the one fucking this dog," Fury answered in frustration, although the metaphor was pretty apt here. Bobbi was supposed to be the one in control since he'd crashed her mission, but look how everything had turned out. The dog was truly fucked. Now Nick had to take the reigns (and if he'd been allowed to from the getgo they wouldn't be in this mess, walls and the Mini would be intact, and LaCroix would be good and dead). There wasn't much time to be bitter, not with all these looky-loo motherfuckers.
The big problem, really, was how bad Morse might be hurt and could she actually continue the mission. That was sort of why he was asking what she wanted to do, but since she seemed determined to press on- or at least defer to his expertise- there was nothing to it but to do it. "Come on," he said and bent down, hauling her up piggy back style to put her arms around his neck. Sure it was awkward as fuck and maybe humiliating but he didn't have time to coddle her ass so she could hobble along until they could find a car. That car would have to be appropriated from one of the gawkers on the road. It involved a large man with a woman on his back waving a pistol in some dude's face as he demanded, "Your car, motherfucker, I need your car." The appropriation was by no means polite, they already had destruction of property under their belt, might as well go for broke with attempted assault with a deadly weapon.
Although the driver didn't quite understand what was being said he seemed to get the gist, or at least had the good sense to get out of the way of a gun, and Nick unceremoniously deposited Bobbi in the front passenger seat before he climbed in the other side. This was nice, much roomier. He took a moment to adjust the seat and very pointedly, with a look at Bobbi, snap in his seat belt before he punched it and they shot off down the street just as police cars with wailing sirens pulled up.
"Here," Nick said and tossed her the GPS. "Tell me where I'm going."