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Whiskey
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“Damn,” breathed ‘Saint’ Michael as he watched the Desert Flame and the Punisher pop out from concealment in the rough terrain. It was a textbook perfect ambush. The Phoenix had emerged from a gully behind him and was already in effective firing range. The Punisher was positioned to cover the best escape routes.

“I thought you were supposed to be a good Scout,” harrumphed Mike’s passenger, an older but still seductive woman who had hired the Whiskey Runners for a taxi passage to Badlands. Mike was mentally kicking himself. She was right. He had let himself get so distracted by her that he hadn’t been keeping his mind on his job. It was time to rectify that situation if he could.

The 3.2L under the mercenary’s hood began to howl as he floored the accelerator. As he cut hard right away from the Punisher, the first shots from the Desert Flame kicked up dust and chunks of old asphalt so close that he could hear bits of gravel pinging off his armor. In a straight road race, the Desert Flame would probably overtake Mike’s mercenary but Mike had no intention of staying on the road. The mercenary vaulted all four wheels clear of the ground when Mike took it over a low hill rather than waste time going around. A burst of fire from the Punisher struck sparks from the rear armor. The Punisher had been taken off guard and was already falling behind. That was probably the last shot they would get. The Desert Flame was another story.

The Phoenix had left the road and was closing fast thanks to some open ground and a nice little down hill run to build up speed. Worse news, those gunners knew their business. Five shots slammed into the right side armor in quick succession. The protection was getting dangerously thin before the terrain opened out to Mike’s left. The Desert Flame’s next shot went wide as the mercenary turned hard away to present the almost fresh rear armor.

“Now, let’s see how you like it,” Mike grunted as he yanked back on the selector lever that engaged the aiming system. With the automatic precision gained from long hours of practice, he grasped the handgrip bolted on where a bicycle pedal would once have been mounted and gave the crank two quick turns and just a bit more. With a detached part of his mind, he noted the slight grinding feel in the mechanism and made a mental note to have the mechanics clean and grease the bicycle chains that drove the traversing gears. The foot not busy with gas and brake, shoved down on the elevation lever to raise the point of aim. As the Desert Flame swung in behind the mercenary, Mike squeezed the trigger mounted on the steering wheel and smiled with grim satisfaction as the Heavy Rocket plowed into the front grill of the Phoenix. The blast was so close that the mercenary wobbled and shrapnel ricocheted off the rear armor.

Smoothly, Mike shoved the selector forward and felt the click as the shifting dogs disengaged from the Heavy Rocket and then the faint resistance before the gears meshed for the MicroMissile Launcher. Spin the bicycle crank and ease off a bit on the elevation foot pedal. As the Desert Flame emerged from the ball of dust and smoke, Mike was already squeezing the trigger to send the deadly little rocket shells into the crater the Heavy Rocket had opened in the Flame’s front armor. One hit, two, three. And the Flame was veering off with smoke billowing from the engine compartment.

With his mind back on task, like a good Scout should, ‘Saint’ Michael was noticing fine details about his surroundings. Details like the mole that was now visible because the zipper on his passenger’s jumpsuit had slid down a critical couple of inches. And how she was looking at him with big shining eyes. And how the tip of her tongue was just visible as she wet her full pouting lips.

Ahead, Mike could see the curve of road that would take him and his passenger on to Gateway. He was already anticipating collecting his “bonus” pay while the shop patched up the armor and reloaded the guns for the run to Badlands.

......................... vet wv
Posted May 6, 2009, 8:39 pm

darthspanky
McSPANKYS LOLLIPOP GANSTAS
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how come theres never any pretty pictures

......................... vet paintball wv1,0,1
Posted May 6, 2009, 9:05 pm

Whiskey
Whiskey Runners
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'Saint' Michael smiles enigmatically and shrugs before pouring more whiskey for the buxom redhead seated next to him.

......................... vet wv
Posted May 6, 2009, 9:41 pm