Impact

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The limo approached Vegas from the east, high speed down the interstate, kicking up a dust plume. V8 turbo roar. A marine stood in the sun roof like he was manning a gun turret. Face masked by sand goggles. Shemagh wrapped round his mouth and nose bandit style. He held an AR-15.

Frost and her companions in the passenger compartment. Zebra upholstery. Blue floor lights. Jolt and sway. Clink of bottles in the mini-bar.

One of the grunts in the driver compartment turned and leaned over the partition. Full flak and K-pot.

‘We call these trips Thunder Runs.’

‘Yeah?’

‘First journey was tough. Hotwired a Peterbilt and bulldozed our way down the nine-five, shunting vehicles aside. Hung out the side door providing cover fire. Tore up my shoulder like tenderised steak. Stuffed tissue in my ears. Had to rotate weapons in case my barrel started to melt. Long fucking day.’

Frost nodded. She looked out the smoked glass window. Bleak desert.

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