Ray ran. He didn't know how close the silver car followed behind him. He couldn't hear anything inside his motorcycle helmet but his heart pounding to keep up with his feet. He didn't dare look back and risk slowing or losing his footing.
A stab of pain low in his left side drove him off balance. He lost his grip on the leather bag. Momentum tumbled him into the red Arizona dust – once, twice. He came to a stop flat on his back in a shallow depression perpendicular to the dry wash. The wind knocked out of him and his side on fire, Ray squeezed his eyes shut against the glare of the late afternoon sun. He'd lost his sunglasses somewhere. Sweat leaked from every pore beneath his black leather pants and jacket. His chest rose and fell with each labored breath. The hitch in his side throbbed. He hadn't run like that since high school.
Seconds later the roar of an engine drowned out the drum of his pulse. Ray opened his eyes as the car hit the lip of the depression. He tensed, expecting to be crushed, but the car flew over him and bounced down hard on the other side, its rear wheels spitting a gravel rooster tail as it sped away.
Ray sputtered and shook dirt from his face. He didn't get a look at the driver, but it had to be the same Johnny asshole who had been on their tail since Oklahoma. Either he didn't see the human speed bump he sailed over, or he found the bag and didn't give a damn. If he found the bag, it wouldn't take him long to realize the contents came up short. Real short.
Ray sat up to a fresh stab of pain. He looked down and discovered the hole low on the left side of his leather jacket. Drawing the jacket open, he stared at the blood stain on his white t-shirt.
"Crap, I'm shot again."
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