Carlos rides his dirt bike over the salt pan. The KTM's powerful highly tuned two-stroke engine easily handles the sedate pace he travels at. He has left the battle far behind him and now heads to the South American container ahead of him. His recently slaughtered teammates are a distant memory.
He slows the bike and pulls up close to the deserted container. He skips off the KTM, flicks down its side stand and grabs a fuel can and begins to top up his bike. He spills gasoline over the bikes tank.
He swears, "Shit."
Finished, he goes back into the container and picks out a pistol and a bottle of water. He tucks them into his uniform and returns to the bike, then checks to make sure the yellow case is still securely fastened to the bike's seat. He tightens one of the fixing straps and tests the case again. It does not move.
Satisfied he kicks up the KTM's side stand and pushes the bike up onto its center stand. He jumps up onto its seat, then clambers up the side of the container and onto its roof. With the back of his sleeve, he wipes the sweat from his face. He pauses and drinks some water, downing half the warm liquid in one long, satisfying glug. He shields his eyes against the sun and looks out over every horizon for any safe haven he can head to. There is none.
He curses, "No hay fin para esto—is there no end to this?"
Apart from blue sky and the white salt pan, the only thing of any scenic difference are tracks made by the South American vehicles. Carlos studies the tracks. They stretch out and disappear into the shimmering heat haze from the direction he has just ridden from.
He thinks he sees something. He scrunches up his eyes and stares out for a few more seconds. He sees a movement. He is sure. Something is heading toward him.
"Mierda!" Carlos curses again.
He runs to the edge of the container and scrambles down to the salt pan. He pushes the dirt bike off its stand, starts it, jumps on and opens up the throttle. The KTM's rear wheel spins and eventually gains traction. The bike rockets forward. Carlos looks behind him. He sees a man on a pink dirt bike racing toward him.
***
Pieter spots the yellow bike racing away from the container, only two thousand yards out in front. He thinks, you can run, but you have nowhere to hide.
***
Carlos crouches down. He tries to make himself and the bike as aerodynamic as possible. Again, he checks behind him. The man on the pink bike seems closer. He screams at the bike, "GO, GO—COME OOOOOON!"
***
Pieter thinks, I'm gaining. Soon I catch you, then I kill you. Using his left hand, he reaches into his uniform and pulls out the pistol. He is now only about fifteen hundred yards behind Carlos.
***
Both bikes rush over the salt pan at maximum power. Identical bikes with identical engines. The South African's bike is a fraction faster, and it continues to catch the South American. The gap between the bikes drops to a thousand yards, then five hundred.
***
Carlos spots something in front of him, on the horizon. It is a gray speck. He heads for it. He thinks, some cover, maybe, to hide behind so I can kill this bastard who chases me down. He reaches into his uniform and pulls out the pistol. He fumbles and drops it. The gun bounces off the bikes fuel tank and falls away behind him onto the salt pan.
"You son of a thousand whores!" Carlos screams. He looks behind him. The pink bike is only four hundred yards away. He can now make out the man who rides the bike. The man is smiling.
***
The gray forty-foot shipping container looms large in front of Carlos. He is close enough to recognize the flag painted onto its steel side. It is the flag of The League of Arab Nations.
Around the container, a battle rages. The Arabs defend. Another team, dressed in black uniforms, are on the attack. The Arab's dirt bike burns, and they flee and scatter over the salt pan. The black team chases them down.
***
It is a fight that Carlos wants no part of. He swerves the bike to his right and escapes from the chaos. As he passes by, he glances to his left and identifies the flag on the side of the black Humvee. He thinks, Russians.
***
Pieter follows. He also spots the Russian flag. He sees an Arab shot and killed, then fall to the ground.
***
The Arabs put their hands up and surrender to the Russians. Engrossed in their respective quests to live or kill, neither team sees the bikes rocket past them.
***
The chase continues. Pieter is only three hundred yards behind Carlos. He thinks, save me now, God, and you have my soul, I promise. No more screwing other men's wives, no more stealing, no more broken promises, no drugs, no drink, no lying, no more sin—just FUCKING SAVE ME."
***
Pieter thinks, Lord, make my aim true. Using his left hand, the South African fires a round at Carlos.
***
The bullet whistles over Carlos' head and he screams, "FUCK YOU, GOD, fuck you!"
***
Pieter is now only two hundred yards behind Carlos.
Carlos swerves the KTM from side to side.
Pieter fires another shot.
The bullet skims through the South American's uniform and nicks his arm. Carlos yells out in pain. A small jet of blood sprays from the wound. Desperate, he tries to gain more power from the dirt bike. He uses all his strength and twists the KTM's throttle another fraction of a millimeter. It's enough. He keeps ahead of Pieter, just.
The Arab container becomes a distant gray speck behind them as they speed onwards. Their race of death continues.
