Dieter Countryman would have laughed again, except when he did it the first time, part of his broken ribs further penetrated his stomach wall. So he lay still and took an assessment. Certainly it was clear he was fucked, but his training dictated he calculate how fucked he was. There was some blurriness and he sure as hell felt dizzy, but conversely he had absolute clarity as to what happened prior to his current state. So, hey, the good news was he didn’t seem to have a concussion.
Nonetheless, he was upside down in his prized limited edition Bullit Mustang fastback. A car that was now in as shitty a condition as its driver, he lamented. He shifted to relieve the pressure of the collapsed steering wheel against his lower abdomen. By some quirk when he’d lost control of the car, the steering wheel had bent to where it was now rather than impaling his chest. Small miracles. Shit. The machine had blown through the guardrail and down the slope of the roadway off of Highway 86. This was after he and Cenine had left the cabin and the dead body of Riggs.
Countryman’s attention began to wander, and he suddenly and fondly recalled how the youngish Mrs. Gilmore had been turned on from their recent escapades.
“Nice work,” she’d whispered, leaning over and letting her tongue flick the inside and outside of his ear. She matched that with a hand rubbing his crotch.
“Time for that later,” he’d said huskily, reciprocating with his hand along her upper thigh.
“Okay, baby,” she’d said, taking a nibble on his earlobe before righting herself in her seat.
But it wasn’t his being sexually excited that made Countryman lose control of the car. It was the high-powered round from the hunting rifle through the windshield and into the left quadrant of his chest that caught him by surprise.
“Deiter, watch it,” Cenine Gilmore shouted, as the tall figure poked out from between a cropping of rocks on the side of the road to take the shot at their car.
“Motherfuck,” Countryman swore while the high-velocity round blew out the windshield, and he tried to keep the car on track in the middle of the night.
“I’ve got it,” the younger woman blared, grabbing the steering wheel, while simultaneously Countryman’s arm spasmed, an involuntary reaction to exorcising his wound, and there went the car and their bodies hurtling over the side. But how the hell did Cenine get out and not him, the black-ops pro considered. Grimacing, he turned his body slightly to see the passenger door wide open, hanging wrong on its hinges. If the door had popped open during the crash, why hadn’t his lover helped him? Or had she been catapulted out of her seat and bashed her head on a tree?
He couldn’t answer that until he got himself free. Pushing against the broken steering wheel only brought tears to his eyes and a shortness of breath. He was too busted up to work loose, and it was still too dark for the Mustang to be seen from up above. Then he heard footsteps in the dry grass.